


bending back

by frankie_31



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Laura Hale, BAMF Stiles, Creeper Peter Hale, Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Laura Hale & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Laura Hale Lives, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Multi, Semi-Public Sex, Sheriff Stilinski Knows About Werewolves, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Slow Build Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski is Part of the Hale Pack, The sterek is in the original time line and steter is in the new timeline, Time Travel Fix-It, Too Many Movie Quotes, Under-negotiated Kink, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Vampires, Violent Sex, uhhhh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:22:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 68,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23111656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frankie_31/pseuds/frankie_31
Summary: Stiles is coasting through his life now that Beacon Hills no longer has a monster infestation problem. Bored and exhausted by normal life, Stiles goes to bed one night and wakes up the morning before Scott was bitten by a rabid Peter Hale.With a second shot at happy, Stiles fully embraces rigging the past to work in his favor. He starts with saving Laura Hale’s life. This change throws everything in the air and leaves Stiles with more moving parts than he expected. Pair that with a Peter who is still grappling with his sanity and the fact that Stiles’ ex-boyfriend is now a 19 year old emo kid and one wonders if fate really can be changed.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, past Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski - Relationship
Comments: 322
Kudos: 1389





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is something that's been percolating for almost a year now. I hope you like it. Feel free to come yell at me on [tumblr](https://www.tarantula-teeth.tumblr.com/).

Somehow, someway, Stiles turns twenty-two. He graduates high school on time. He brings flowers to Ally’s grave. He grimaces when he drives by the high school. He gets his associates at Beacon Community and transfers to Berkley to make it cheaper for his dad. He loses sleep and gets premature grey hairs and wrinkles on his forehead. He grieves for lost loved ones and falls in love one summer with Derek after a series of too-honest three a.m. phone calls.

He gets his heart smashed into tiny pieces by Derek fleeing to Buenos Aires after Cora. He can’t even be upset because Cora is the second-to-last Hale alive and Derek doesn’t actually owe Stiles anything. He makes it within a few scant months from graduation with his BA in criminal sciences.

He turns twenty-two.

He falls asleep a few months into his twenty-second year looking at his dorm ceiling and wakes staring at his childhood one. It doesn’t take much more than a few seconds for Stiles to realize he’s been thrown back in time.

His alarm is, hilariously, playing Saving Abel. He slaps it off. Sits up, catalogues his room to try and place himself in time.

His yarn-board is absent. The blood stain Derek left by his closet sophomore year is not yet spilled. He has a pre-calc textbook on his desk and when he rubs a hand over his chin it’s scruff free. He’s at most 16. Maybe younger.

A trip to the bathroom mirror confirms it. He’s still soft in the face, youthful and flushed. He runs his fingers through his buzz cut, draws his hands over his lanky arms. The only thing that doesn’t match is his expression.

He’s lost the sleep-deprived eye bags but the tension lines carried over from the future. Fine creases between his brows and around his mouth. He smiles at himself beautifically, admiring how absolutely joyful he looks.

Sweet and innocent and cheerful. Just another high school kid. His phone chirps from the bedroom and he allows the smile to slide off his face. The slack, empty expression returns and he goes to collect the phone.

If he remembers right, and he does, the date on his phone is the morning before Scott got bit.

He gets dressed, brushes his teeth and heads downstairs. His dad is at the table, sipping coffee and he peers at Stiles over his newspaper.

“Son,” he says in greeting. “Sleep okay?”

“Dad,” Stiles says, smiling despite himself. He’s going to do it the right way this time. “I have so much to tell you.”

“Do you now?”

“Last night,” Stiles says. “Everything changed. And it’s just going to get worse. I think that’s why I’m here. I traveled back in time—“

And everything goes black.

He opens his eyes again, peers up at his bedroom ceiling and sits up. He checks the phone first this time, he’s back where he started.

A theory half forms and he leans out his bedroom door.

“Dad?” He calls downstairs.

“Son?”

“I time traveled—“

Blackness again. His ceiling. He’s reset again. Back in bed, back to Saving Abel on his alarm.

He can’t speak of it. The time traveling.

First rule.

Now, he has to find out the others.

He goes through the motions again, heading downstairs and deflecting his dad as carefully as he can. On his way to school he considers his options. He could stay here, fix everything he possibly can and then see what happens when he turns twenty-two again. He could try to get home to his time, to his graveyard town full of missing people and heart ache.

But how does he research getting home without letting anyone know? It would just reset him if anyone found out.

Is he completely starting over? Will it reset at midnight like Groundhog Day or will it reset again at twenty-two?

He’s still musing when he pulls into the school parking lot, getting out on auto-pilot and heading for the front steps.

“Stiles!” A voice calls and it pulls him from his thoughts.

It’s Scott. Sweet, floppy-haired Scott. On his bicycle, wearing a helmet and just so pure and happy. It makes Stiles’ mind up for him.

He’s going to save everyone.

“Scotty, my dude, my bro,” Stiles says and yanks Scott in for a hug. “You look great. You’re adorable. I am so glad to see you.”

“Thanks, Stiles,” Scott says into Stiles’ shoulder, a smile audible in his voice. “You look good too. Is your shirt new?”

“Same old, same old,” Stiles says and rubs a hand over the back of his head. “Hey, have you heard about anything weird out in the woods?”

“Um, no,” Scott says and smiles bemusedly at him. “What do you mean?”

“Right,” Stiles says and squints his eyes a little. “I guess I don’t mean anything.”

“Did your dad say something?” Scott asks and finishes locking his bike. “My mom has the graveyard shift tonight. We could go check it out.”

“Fuck no,” Stiles says with far more feeling than he means to. “After school we should probably work on your Chemistry homework.”

“You think so?” Scott asks and they head up the steps of the school.

“Yeah, Scotty,” Stiles says. “But let’s worry about it later. We gotta get to class.”

Lydia and Jackson cross before them. Surprise trickles through his brain before he processes it.

“Lydia. Uh…scio arcanum tuum,” he says and her head swivels instantly to them. He smiles, tilts his head and waggles his fingers.

“I didn’t know you knew Spanish,” Scott says and Stiles turns to beam at him, true happiness overtaking him.

“Scott, I enjoy your presence. Immensely. Immeasurably,” Stiles says and pulls Scott under his arm.

“You’re in a good mood today,” Scott says. “You update the ten year plan?”

“Nope,” Stiles says and begins to lead Scott up the stairs. “I have more pressing things to worry about. But let me tell you, it’s smooth sailing from here, Scott.”

****

He’d forgotten about Erica. Somehow.

Seeing her was like being dunked into that ice bath all over again. She’d turned, curls falling over her shoulder. So young. So young. Quiet and quivering beside her locker, eyes downcast and sweater sleeves dangling over her fingers. Then, later, Boyd at his lunch table. Isaac carrying his lunch tray out of the cafeteria.

They were his responsibility, Stiles thought to himself. It all started with him.

He’d led Scott into the woods and set the entire thing into motion. Every death, every lost friend, every misery—his fault. He’d save them all.

He and Scott split ways after school, him promising that they’d meet up again to go over the Chemistry homework.

Twenty minutes later finds him crunching through the ground cover of the preserve, pushing branches out of his way on his path to the Hale House. The redwoods give way to fruiting trees, planted by Hales of yore, and a dried lawn that backs up to the charred remains of the house.

“Derek?” He calls, crossing the lawn. “Derek Hale?”

He doesn’t find Derek. He finds Laura, split in two already and gasping wetly.

Stiles runs to her, falls at her side and watches the alpha red flicker in her eyes.

“Help,” she mouths and Stiles blinks back against the sting in his eyes.

“I’m a time traveler,” he says as her chest rattles and then he’s blissfully waking up to Saving Abel and his ceiling again. He lays there, catches his breath.

Then, he skips school and heads directly to the Hale house.

He calls for Laura this time, cupping his hands around his mouth and marching through the dried leaves.

It’s a long moment before someone steps out of the house. A girl--or a woman.

“This is private property,” Laura says.

Stiles barely stifles his sigh of relief, he knows his pulse is sky-rocketing and Laura frowns at him from the porch.

“Yes,” Stiles agrees eventually, voice strained. And she steps a little closer. “It is. But I need to talk to you.”

“You called for me,” Laura says and Stiles nods.

“You’re right,” he says. “And you’re a werewolf.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My bad. Thought we were stating the obvious.”

“Don’t get cheeky,” she snaps and vaults over the porch railing with ease. She’s wearing a cream cardigan, matching boots and corduroys. It’s so incongruous with all the other Hale’s wardrobes that it’s almost funny. “What business do you have with the Hales?”

“Your uncle--Peter,” Stiles starts and she draws back visibly, sneering.

“You don’t get to lecture me,” she seethes and he shakes his head. “We left him because we had to.”

“I’m not--I don’t care how you treated him. He’s dangerous,” Stiles says.

“He’s a coma patient . He’s not dangerous to a bunny,” she says and her eyes flash red. “Who even are you?”

“I’m Stiles,” he says and shrugs a little, sticks his hands in his pockets.

“Stiles,” she scoffs. “That deputy’s kid?”

“He’s the sheriff, actually--but that doesn’t matter. Peter isn’t comatose. He’s awake,” Stiles says. “He wants to kill you. Take your place.”

“How do you know?” Laura asks. Her eyes burn in the shade from the redwood canopy. “You’re not lying. But how do you know?”

“I’m smart,” Stiles says, trying to speak in half truths. “I figured it out. He’s insane with grief and completely twisted from being stuck in a half-healing body for years. He is going to try to kill you. Today. Soon. So, we should probably vamonos.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Laura says but she crosses the lawn to him either way.

“You should call Derek back to Beacon Hills,” Stiles says and she shoots him a withering look as they head towards his Jeep. Derek’s name is bitter on his tongue.

“Why would I bring my beta somewhere it’s not safe?”

“Because you’ll be stronger with your pack close,” Stiles says. “And it’s Derek. He can’t be alone right now. He’s probably getting thrown into a dumpster right now.”

“How would you know?” Laura asks, shoving Stiles into the driver’s side and hopping over the hood to slide into the passenger seat. “What’s your deal, Big Eyes?”

“Is that--a-a painting reference or a Little Red reference? Nevermind. Doesn’t matter,” Stiles starts the car and pulls onto the dirt road that leads back to town. “We have to go talk to Peter.”

“Talk to him? You said he’s going to kill me,” Laura leans against the door, her claws sliding out of her fingers. “Why are you taking me to him? Remember that I can kill you with minimal effort, Big Eyes.”

“You’re gonna do your whole--” Stiles scrunches his face into a growl and mimics little claws. “--Alpha roar and he’s going to submit. But his nurse is crazy so we gotta watch for her too.”

“His nurse?”

“Blonde, five-foot-something, probably a seven-point-five. Eight if she wasn’t a psychotic murderer.”

“I can’t do the Alpha roar,” Laura says, eyes shuttered and Stiles drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Haven’t learned yet.”

“You will,” Stiles says and shrugs. “You’re the Alpha. You can do the roar. Can I tell you that I have a spiritual and moral issue saying roar out loud? I feel like a scene kid.”

“You are a bizarre person,” Laura says but she sheathes her claws. “Do you really think I should call Derek?”

“Yes,” Stiles says emphatically. As pissed as he is at future!Derek, he still cares about him.“Please. Tell him you love him. Tell him to be careful.”

“You’re very bizarre,” Laura repeats. She dials on her phone and presses it to her ear. “Der? It’s Laura.”

By the time she’s updated Derek and expressed her love (at Stiles’ insistence), they’re pulling up at the skilled nursing facility that houses Peter.

“I should go get him,” Stiles says. “Get you guys somewhere secluded.”

“Why?” Laura asks suspiciously.

“You can’t do your Alpha thing in there,” Stiles looks around, watching for the nurse. “Too many civilians.”

“I hate to break it to you but you’re a civilian,” she says and starts to pop her door open.

“I’m not,” he snaps. “I’m not a civilian. You need to listen. I’m trying to save you all.”

“Why is any of it your job?” She asks but she leaves the door closed.

“None of your business,” he says and hops out of the car. “Stay here.”

He sees her eyes flash before he turns but he doesn’t hear the door open so he hurries into the facility. It takes very little effort to circumvent the nurse’s station, the mental map left over from when his mom was an inpatient, and he begins speed walking down the hallway, peering in each doorway for Peter.

A strike of fear does run through him when he finds Peter. He’s in his chair, turned towards his little window. Still, silent. Breathing in robotic, even motions.

“Ohhhkay,” Stiles says under his breath and approaches Peter carefully. Peter is passive beneath the gnarl of scar tissue on his face. “We are all good here. Right, buddy? I’m just gonna take you on a little field trip.”

He pops the locks on his wheelchair and then he’s headed for the nearest exit, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds. Laura is standing beside the Jeep when he gets back, arms crossed and face impassive.

“Get the door,” Stiles says, gesturing with his chin at the back. She does and together they hoist Peter up into the back seat. He remains still, placid and deadweight, as they buckle him in and stick his chair in the trunk.

Once they’re back in the front, Laura cranes around in her seat to keep a careful eye on Peter.

“Back to the house,” she orders and Stiles balks.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says and she growls. “I don’t! We want to break him out of the psychosis. Taking him back there seems like a bad idea.”

“You’re very mouthy for someone who knows what I am,” she says around wolf teeth. “If you’re such a genius--where should we go?”

“There’s a bank,” he says after a moment of thinking. “The walls are made of a stone that blocks the moon from werewolves. We need mountain ash. We have to see Deaton.”

“Deaton? He’s still here?”

“Unfortunately,” Stiles says and ruffles his fingers through his buzz cut. “I do not want to bring him into this.”

“Where else would there be mountain ash?”

“Fuck,” Stiles says with feeling.

***

Stiles feels a little like a pouty kindergartner dragging his feet through the door of Deaton’s vet office. The office has just opened and Deaton is flipping through a worn Rolodex at the front counter.

“Hi,” Stiles says and Deaton slowly moves his eyes to look at him.

“Mr. Stilinski,” Deaton says in greeting. “Hello. Scott’s shift is after school.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says and teeters back on his heels awkwardly. “I’m not here for Scott. I need something from you.”

“And what might you need from me, Mr. Stilinski?”

“Mountain ash.”

Deaton is quiet at this, tellingly so. Then he closes his Rolodex cover carefully and lifts the divider on his counter, by all appearances inviting Stiles in to the back.

Stiles walks through the wards of magic and mountain ash easily enough and Deaton watches him move into the exam room with a blank face.

“I’m not sure how hard it is to get mountain ash,” Stiles says and Deaton closes the exam room door behind him. “But I can pay you for it. I don’t need a lot.”

“Despite the quantity, why do you need it?”

“What does anyone use mountain ash for? Wards. I need to ward,” Stiles says and Deaton nods minutely.

“And what do you need to ward against?”

“I think you know. And that’s why you’re going to sell it to me. Balance that,” he says with a flash of anger in his voice.

Deaton does raise his eyebrows then, surprise just barely affecting the cant of his mouth.

“I will trade you for it,” Deaton says after a long moment. “A quart of mountain ash in exchange for a lock of Laura’s hair. I believe she’s out in your Jeep.”

“Her hair? It’s not mine to give,” Stiles says. “You can have mine. It’s more rare.”

“Deal,” Deaton says and he returns shortly with a glass jar of ash. Stiles takes it, trying not to feel like he played directly into Deaton’s hand.

He leaves, in a worse mood than before and heads outside.

***

Peter remains comatose even after they wheel his chair into the vault. Stiles pours a line in the doorway and Laura watches his carefully, arms crossed and nose wrinkled.

“I’m waiting for the blood thirst to start,” Laura drawls and Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Roar at him,” Stiles says. He gestures brusquely. “Call him back.”

“I can’t do that,” she says and shakes her head. “I never learned.”

“Try,” Stiles says. He’s bouncing on his heels, nail beds shredded by his teeth. “Do something.”

“Look, kid, I don’t know what wolves you run with but you can’t talk to me like that. I’m the Alpha,” Laura snarls and Stiles smiles bitterly. He found his angle.

“I can do whatever I want. Red eyes does not an Alpha make. You left your pack twice--once here and again in New York. You can’t call your pack. Can you do a full shift? Just because you had the nerve to stay alive doesn’t mean that you deserve to be--”

“Enough,” Laura intones, voice thick with Alpha command. Peter twitches in his chair and Stiles smiles at her with his shittiest grin.

“Or what?” He asks delicately and watches Laura shake into her Beta form.

“Enough,” she repeats and Stiles watches as Peter slowly rises from his chair.

“Or what?” Peter asks in a slippery, silky voice.

“Peter,” she gasps, whirling around. “Uncle.”

“What exactly are you going to do? You’re impotent,” Peter continues and flexes a clawed hand against the mountain ash barrier. “Washed up, Laura-loo.”

“Don’t say that,” she says with tears in her voice. “Please.”

“The boy is right,” he says and folds his hands behind his back. “You’re lousy with power. Drenched in it. And you’re just standing there.”

“Call him,” Stiles urges, crowding behind Laura and meeting Peter’s blue eyes. “Call him back. He’s yours. Claim him.”

“I’m going to be doing the claiming,” Peter laughs. “First, I claim the title. Alpha Hale. Then your life, Laura.”

“No,” Laura says in a whisper. “You’re mine. My pack. My beta. Mine.”

“Claim him,” Stiles says and she sets her shoulders.

“Peter,” she says and he scoffs at her.

She lifts her head and cracks her neck in the same manner Derek does. Stiles doesn’t need to see her face to know that her face is twisted into a lupine snarl.

She roars.

For a long moment nothing happens, then Peter laughs.

“Nice try, Laura-loo. But you need to believe you’re the Alpha to use it’s power,” he says and she does a full-body shake.

“Take down the barrier, Stiles,” she says and flexes her hands into claws.

“I don’t know--”

“Now,” she snaps and Stiles claps his hands, dividing the ash from behind Laura.

Peter doesn’t waste a second, flying at Laura with a terrifying snarl. Stiles makes a mad dash for the vault, sealing the ash back once he’s through.

Peter and Laura are a vicious, sinuous blur of blood and snarls. It’s impossible to tell who is winning until finally Laura throws Peter against the mountain ash barrier, stalking towards him and letting loose the gnarliest roar Stiles’ has ever heard.

Peter shakes his head like a dog and Laura slams him against the barrier again.

She roars and Peter howls in return, a long and aching sound that makes Stiles’ stomach drop. She pulls him up and slams him again, snarling in his face and he bares his throat with a jerk.

She bites him, drawing blood, and Peter makes a whuffling noise that Stiles’ has never even dreamed of hearing.

“Pack,” Laura says around wicked fangs and Peter nods quickly. “Pack. My pack. Mine.”

“Yours,” Peter cringes and Lara licks the blood off her fangs and stands upright.

She hauls Peter to his feet and holds him at arm’s length, scenting him from afar. Peter’s scars melt into his skin almost quicker than Stiles’ eyes can perceive and he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Laura brings Peter closer, scenting behind his ear and making a gross chuffing sound.

Stiles quietly breaks the ward and steps around the duo, helplessly watching the complicated look on Peter’s face. He looks like an angel from a Renaissance painting, anguished and blissed all at once.

Stiles leaves.

It’s only noon and there’s no chance he’s going back to school. So, he heads home. Passes out on his bed and prays to wake up at twenty-two again.

***

He doesn’t.

It’s dark out when he wakes next. He has a series of texts from his dad. A patient from the nursing facility is missing and they’re doing a canvas for him.

Peter.

His phone tells him it’s three in the morning and he’s still firmly in the past.

With a sigh, he slumps back down on the bed. What’s next? Allison? Befriending Derek’s betas?

A scratching at his window has him jerking back upright and his heart pounds as he struggles to make out the figure in the window.

Peter.

“What do you want?” Stiles asks and Peter motions for Stiles to open the window. Stiles stands, shirtless and cold, but he opens the window. “Where’s Laura?”

The bite mark is still fresh, scabbed over but just barely. Stiles drags his eyes away from it and finds Peter smiling at him serenely.

“I thought I should personally thank the boy who reunited the Hale Pack,” Peter says and gracefully slips through the window, forcing Stiles to step back or end up pressed against him. “Your interference benefitted us all.”

“Where is Laura?” Stiles asks again, crossing his arms.

“Relax. She’s picking up Derek from the airport. Although,” Peter says and he cocks his head at Stiles. “You’re wise for wondering. A bite and a yell. Is that all it takes to tame a rogue Beta?”

“What are you saying?” Stiles asks and he glances around hopelessly for a weapon. “You’re not tamed?”

“Little human,” Peter says sagely and he reaches out and grabs Stiles’ forearm in an iron grip. “A wolf is never tame. I won’t be domesticated.”

He pulls Stiles closer, lifts his arm to his mouth and presses wolves’ teeth to the delicate flesh of his inner wrist.

“I could kill you in seconds,” he says against Stiles’ skin. “And your poor little daddy would never know. My fangs are razor sharp. That strange Sheriff’s boy, they’ll say. We knew he was a miserable freak. Lonely and suicidal.”

“Do I have to kill you?” Stiles asks, more to himself than to Peter. “Can’t you just let her be Alpha?”

“Oh, I’ll let her be Alpha,” Peter says. “Derek may not be particularly fearsome but he is the proverbial cavalry riding in. And I know where you got the ash from. That old bat of a druid won’t allow much more Hale blood to spill. I’ll bide my time.”

“So, what? You’re just going to wait to kill Laura?”

“Kill Laura. Kill another Alpha. Who knows? That’s the fun of it, I think,” Peter says. He straightens a little more and grazes his fangs over Stiles’ veins. “Now, you get to decide. Play my game or die. I’ll give you an easy out. Do you want me to bite you once I regain my rightful Alpha status?”

Oh, cruel Fate.

“I don’t want the bite,” Stiles says, tracing the script he remembers.

“Ah. Your heartbeat skipped on the word ‘don’t’. I’ll put you down, little human. Consider it a--ah--a freebie,” Peter says and Stiles lifts his chin in defiance.

“Let me go,” he says in a steady voice. “I’ll play. But Laura has to live.”

“Making demands,” Peter says but he releases Stiles. “What gives you the right?”

“I know where other Alphas are. Or at least how to find them,” Stiles says and he grinds his palms into his eyes. Peter can be a weapon, leashed by his hunger for power and perhaps Stiles can solve two problems.

“And who might that be?” Peter asks and crosses the room to sprawl on Stiles’ bed. He leans back on his elbows, the cords of his throat defined in the moonlight and the bite on his neck stark against his pale skin.

“Deucalion. Ennis. Kali,” Stiles says and Peter’s eyebrows fly up. “Maybe others.”

“Why, you’re simply a wealth of information,” he says and Stiles turns away. “Just a slip of a boy and you’re wielding me like a hunting dog. Oh, yes. I’m quite attuned to how an advantageous mind works. I see you, little human.”

“There’s something else,” Stiles says and Peter’s teeth glimmer from behind his smile.

“Correct. The Argents. I won’t be letting that brood continue,” he says and Stiles purses his lips and turns away.

“Kate. You can kill Kate. And Gerard. But Chris and Victoria and Allison are innocent,” Stiles says, turning back and Peter’s prodding his bite with a hiss.

“The father and the daughter may live,” Peter says with a shrug. “If you think Victoria is innocent then you are stupider than I thought.”

“Innocent to the Hale fire,” Stiles argues and Peter smiles wider.

“Clever little thing,” he nearly coos and Stiles scoffs. “I’ll agree to negotiate on Victoria. But you’ll have to offer me something else.”

“Give me a week,” Stiles says. “I need to think.”

“Two days,” Peter counters.

He holds Stiles’ gaze with glinting blue eyes.

Then, he leaves.

***

“I have the bargaining chip for Victoria,” Stiles says two days later.

Peter is perched on his bed when he gets home from school, flipping through Stiles’ stashed porn mag.

“Put that down,” Stiles chides, flattening a palm over some brunette model’s spread. “You don’t want to touch that. I don’t want to touch that.”

“Why does a teenager from the 21st century own paper masturbatory aids?” Peter asks in a dry tone. He drops the magazine to the floor and reclines on Stiles’ bed again. “What’s your chip, little human?”

“Once you’re an alpha—We’ll. Let me back up. We have to draw the alpha pack here. Once they’re in Beacon Hills—Well. I’m still sketching out the first part of the plan. My chip is your new pack, once you’re an alpha. I’ve selected three candidates for betas,” Stiles says. He sits sideways in his desk chair and slings a leg over one arm.

“Selecting my pack? Rather presumptive,” Peter says but he hasn’t said no.

Stiles forges ahead.

“Erica Reyes. Epileptic. Tough as nails and gorgeous to boot. Isaac Lahey. Abusive parent. Ruthless when he needs to be. And finally, Boyd. Just one name—Like Cher. Stacked as hell as human so you can imagine when he gets a little wolfy. Plus he has keys to the ice rink which is neat,” Stiles says and holds his hands out in a little ta-da motion.

“A real ragtag team,” Peter sighs. He sits up. His shirt is very purple. “Interesting. Let me ask this—Why are you so ready to sacrifice your classmates to potential death?”

“That’s the—the subclause in this deal. You have to—Scratch that. We have to lay it all out for them. And if they agree, that’s that. It’s in their hands,” Stiles says. Peter doesn’t look impressed. “Everyone wins. And I don’t imagine you’ll be able to become an alpha this year so they’ll be juniors or seniors when you do finally get around to popping the big question.”

“Are you a witch?” Peter asks, squinting across the room.

“Yep. Call me Sabrina. I think my black cat is around here somewhere. My broomstick is in the shop—“

“Alright, alright. Spare me the comedy routine. And what exactly will you do if I don’t follow your plan, Stiles?” Peter asks, flicking his claws out and turning them to and fro.

Stiles drops the jovial teen act.

He can feel his body tense up, years of martial art training solidifying his balance and lending him a foreign grace. What little ember of his spark burns in this body flares white hot and he stands from his chair. Peter doesn’t look shocked, per se, but there’s a slackness too his jaw that suggests the change in Stiles is visible.

“If you turn on me—if you turn on your pack,” Stiles says clearly. “I will burn you.”

Peter remains silent, eyes flitting across Stiles’ face.

Stiles continues.

“You have a use right now. You’re a figurehead. Laura and Derek need as much family as they can get. You’re going to play aloof, fun Uncle Peter and hold those kids together. Or I will lance you like a nasty boil. Does that make sense?” Stiles asks. He leans into Peter’s space, just a little, and wonders what happens if he dies. “I asked a question.”

“My. Quite a bark, little human,” Peter says wonderingly. The slackness to his face has turned into one of interest. One of hunger. “What are you?”

“If you’re good, one day you might get to find out,” Stiles says and he flops back in his chair. “For now, I have to figure out how to find Kate. And we need to prepare Derek.”

“You know what he did?”

“He didn’t do anything. She hunted him and he was a child who got caught.”

“I suppose. I can reach out to my contacts. They might have an idea where the Argent woman is.”

“That would be helpful,” Stiles concedes.

“And I’ll do it. Play along in your Partridge Family antics. I wish—,” Peter hesitates, a perfect image of contrition on his face. “I wish they could still have parents. I wish they didn’t have to grow up so quickly. I’ll do my best to—“

“Yeah, yeah. Perfect. Save it for your pack,” Stiles says. He waves a hand at Peter’s amused expression and then towards the window. “You can go. Tell Laura I’ll be by soon. I have a few quotes drawn up for rebuilding the Hale House. Oh. And report yourself as not missing. You’re wasting the taxpayers money, Peter.”

“You are very lucky you’re so interesting,” Peter says. He inhales deeply and casts a critical eye around. “See you soon, little human.”

***

With Peter on the back burner, Stiles allows himself a few days to enjoy Scott. Scott is lovesick, head over heels for Allison, and Stiles finds a nostalgic pleasure in helping him woo her. Stiles had skipped the day they met to go reunite Peter and Laura so Scott had basically word-vomited all over him the next day.

Allison is so bright and sweet and happy. Stiles has to go deep breath in the bathroom the first time he sees her laugh.

Stiles is sure he’s making the right move when he sees Scott waving frantically at a grinning Allison at their next practice. When he sits with Boyd at lunch, dragging a distracted Scott and a doting Allison with him. When Erica peeks at him from behind her hair in P.E. and laughs at his extended Finstock impression. When he dumps Scott on Isaac in biology and they leave the class exchanging phone numbers.

It’s all going to be better.

***

Laura’s waiting for him when he pulls into their hotel parking lot. She’s dressed in more Nordstrom mannequin regalia and Stiles lopes up the stairs to meet her. He brandishes a folder to her and when she takes it he moves passed her to peer in her open doorway.

Derek is on the bed, sullen and tired-looking in a soft red sweater. Stiles is surprised his heart doesn’t twang when he sees him. This Derek is so different from his. He and Derek’s mutual dislike hadn’t even begun to melt until Stiles had graduated high school and Derek had seen a few therapists. This Derek is just a hurt kid.

“Derek. In the flesh. How was the plane? Look at your little sweater,” he cheers and Derek casts a withering glare towards him.

“Who exactly are you?” Laura asks from behind him. She closes the door. The folder of contractor quotes is pressed to her chest.

“I’m Stiles. Friendly, neighborhood trash mouth. I’m here to help,” Stiles says and he leans against the TV stand.

“How do you know what you know?”

Stiles has been planning for this question for days.

“The fire never made sense to my dad. There was no substantial proof of who started the fire but there was enough that it was clear it wasn’t an accident. I read through the files out of curiosity. Out of—I knew Cora. I wanted to understand. I found old plans of these tunnels under the house and I wondered why none of you went through them. Then I went and—well,” Stiles drops off to allow a natural conclusion to be drawn. “There was all this...ash around them. And the lab results from the soil around the house also showed this weird ash.”

Derek and Laura are silent, tuned carefully to his heart.

“The ash was from—Well. You guys know. And that google-fu session led to an understanding. Why would someone line the outside of the Hale House in allegedly magic ash?”

“That’s quite a deductive leap,” Laura says. She shifts on her suede boots.

“I’m quite a deducer. Elementary, my dear Hales,” he says and Derek scoffs. “Alright. Not big Doyle fans.”

“Suspecting we are something…more doesn’t exactly equate to untangling how to bring a beta from a fugue state,” Peter’s silky voice drifts from the open bathroom. He comes out, fingers raking through his carefully styled hair. “That’s a very impressive extrapolation.”

“Well. I watched a lot of Inspector Gadget in my youn—,” Stiles falls quiet at Derek’s irritated growl. Derek is pale, pinched-faced. “Okay. I know things. Sometimes.”

A half-truth and a blatant misled.

“You know things,” Laura parrots. She flicks a concerned look towards Derek. “Things that haven’t happened?”

Stiles weighs his words carefully. Peter crosses the room to lay a heavy hand on Derek’s nape and run his palm up to Derek’s jaw. Derek and Laura relax minutely.

“Things that could happen,” he lands on. Laura nods, mostly to herself, and Stiles continues. “If I could have stopped—I wish I could have stopped her. I would give anything—“

“Enough,” Derek breathes. His voice is rough and his hands shake between his knees. “Please.”

“Look, not to get too after-school special,” Stiles starts. Derek flashes blue eyes at him but it’s not a move of anger. Derek’s face is on the verge of crumpling and Stiles forges on. Words he’s mulled over for nearly a decade simmer under his skin and he focuses his thoughts. Words Derek deserves to hear in this timeline and any other. “None of their blood is on your hands, Derek. You didn’t cause this. An evil psycho freak did. You got used. She did this.”

“That’s enough,” Peter says. Derek has crumbled the rest of the way. Hands pressed to his face, shoulders shaking. Peter grips the back of his neck.

“What am I missing?” Laura asks, wrong footed and lost.

Derek whines, deep in his chest, and Peter exhales softly. Stiles watches Peter’s carefully constructed expression of sorrow transition into one of guilt. It’s masterful.

“I wasn’t certain. Until now,” Peter says like he’s pulling teeth. Stiles can’t be the only one who can sense the delight Peter feels at revealing this. But, as he watches Derek shrivel further and Laura draw closer with her arms wrapped around her middle, he realizes the act is landing perfectly. “The Argent woman. She infiltrated us. She—Well. She took advantage of our pup.”

The words are punctuated with Derek curling sideways against Peter’s legs with another whine. Laura presses a hand to her mouth. Peter wakes until she’s crouched on the floor before Derek and pulled his head against her neck to meet Stiles’ eyes. There’s a glimmer of contrition. But the smug, pleased expression on his face makes Stiles balk. Is he making things worse?

Peter seems to sense the thoughts percolating in Stiles’ brain and he grins cruelly before leaning down and enveloping his pack in a tight hug. It makes Stiles’ stomach turn. Peter needs supervision around these vulnerable kids. At least until Laura is strong enough to bring him to heel herself. Stiles sighs internally and settles more comfortably against the TV stand. Peter meets his eye again and Stiles resists the urge to stick his tongue out. There’s a hungry look hanging on Peter’s face again.

He tucks his face back into Laura’s hair and Stiles waits for the emotional scene to end. Eventually, Laura stands and turns back to Stiles. Derek wipes his face miserably on his sleeves and Peter pats his shoulder.

“Mom would be disappointed in my actions thus far,” Laura says. A steely thread of Alpha follows her words. “I left my pack behind. I ran. Our home—our land—is in shambles and the Hale name has faded from this town’s mouth. I am not leaving again. And I’m not letting the Argents go unpunished. Blood for blood.”

“Laura—,” Stiles starts. His eyes catch a delighted spark dart across Peter’s face.

She continues, ”The code was broken. The Argent matriarch will answer. My word is law.”

“Laura, you can’t,” Derek protests. He stands as well. “You can’t. Everyone will know what happened.”

“They should,” Laura snaps, turning on him. “They should know. She abused a pup. She killed our family. She deserves trial by blood. I demand trial by blood.”

“I don’t think that’s the best move,” Stiles tries and Laura growls.

“No. Dear niece, Stiles is right. What will you do if the Argent matriarch denies the trial? I have an idea,” Peter says. He draws his fingers over his own jaw. “The Argent woman acted alone, Stiles?”

“She did. She had a few lackeys but not...the matriarch. Or the matriarch’s husband,” Stiles agrees. Peter is steering this effortlessly. And, unfortunately, Stiles likes the direction it’s headed. He sows his own seed. “Does she even deserve a trial?”

Laura looks between the two of them and Stiles is struck by how young she looks. She’s looking for guidance. Stiles hates that it’s coming from a monster and a liar.

“She acted outside of the Argent’s code. We can take care of this with the same amount of respect she gave us,” Peter continues. He tacks in the first nail of Kate’s coffin.

“She’s a monster. She doesn’t deserve the honor of a trial,” Stiles agrees. Laura balks. He’s pushing too hard. He softens the next nail, “ And Derek doesn’t deserve to have his dirty laundry aired to the entire Argent family.”

Derek shakes his head, fresh tears well in his eyes. Peter sighs and stokes his neck.

“It would take the upper hand away from our pack. We know what she did was wrong,” Peter says. He looks up at her from under his eyelashes. Laura bites her lip. “But the hunters will just see it as a new battle tactic. We don’t want to arm them any further.”

“You could take care of it? Quietly?” Laura asks. The final nail in Kate’s coffin.

“No one would know what happened. Our pack could regain its dignity. Right a wrong. And then, we rebuild. Bring the Hale name back to Beacon Hills,” Peter soothes. There’s a shine in his beautifully sad eyes. Stiles wants to puke.

Peter flicks his gaze to Stiles and Stiles squints at the are-you-happy-now expression on his face. Peter has kept in the parameters Stiles set and everyone is going away happy. Or at least, less homicidal. Derek allows Laura to draw him in for a hug and, over his shoulder, Laura nods to Peter.

***

Stiles’ knows when it’s done because Peter appears on his roof. Stiles is nearly nude, just in a pair of underwear. He’s changing into joggers after a long and boring lacrosse practice and the rare smell of his dad’s pierogi cooking is drifting up the stairs. Peter draws his attention by raking his claws over Stiles’ window with a skin-crawling screech.

It’s been a few weeks since he talked with the Hales in the hotel room. He traces the timeline from his past and thinks Kate must finally have come into town.

“What do you want?” Stiles asks through the window. He’s freezing all of a sudden. “Is that blood?”

Peter’s hands glimmer darkly in the moonlight. He smiles and the blood around his mouth makes his teeth look like diamonds. Peter laughs then, probably at the uptick in Stiles’ heart rate.

“Little pig, little pig,” Peter lilts, leaning closer to the window. His eyes glow an electric blue. There’s blood everywhere. “Let me in.”

“Not a chance,” Stiles hisses. Peter digs his claws under the windowsill and lifts, tearing the locks from the wooden sill. Stiles stumbles back a few steps. “Get away from my window. You look like a nightmare. Freddy Krueger who?”

Peter wrenches the window the rest of the way up and begins to reach in, stopping when his hands meet an invisible barrier of mountain ash. He laughs, a sinister chuckle and then he steps back.

“What do you want? Go away,” Stiles hisses, listening for his father. The house is quiet and when he refocuses, Peter is unbuttoning his blood soaked shirt. “What are you doing?”

“Are you familiar with the concept of insurance?” Peter asks, nearly coquettish beneath Kate’s blood.

“What are you plotting, you freak,” Stiles grouses, getting just close enough to peer out at Peter.

“You hold my leash,” Peter says. He’s shirtless now and wringing blood out of the shirt onto Stiles’ roof. Great. Planting evidence. “I’m reporting to you, master.”

“That was not code for show up outside my window when I am in a state of undress,” Stiles hisses.

“But it’s my favourite of all your states,” Peter says with unconcealed mirth and he’s not even pretending to not look at Stiles’ bare chest. He pauses his wringing and moves closer to the window. “You’re a fascinating little thing. So pale. My people would call you moon-pelt.”

“Mine would call you a creep,” Stiles says and he grabs the lacrosse stick from beside the window. He jabs it out the window but it falls short of Peter. Stiles is pretty sure Peter is trying to making direct eye contact with his nipples and that is an even bigger issue than being framed for murder. He crosses his arms over his chest reflexively and drops the goddamn lacrosse stick. “Crap.”

“I could get that for you--”

"Oh my god," Stiles breathes dejectedly and Peter grins.

"Something wrong?"

"Nope. Everything is good. Great. Couldn't be happier," Stiles presses his face into his hands. "You good? Need some snacks? Pizza rolls? I actually think dinner time is coming up in a little bit so maybe you should skedaddle--"

"Maybe you could invite me in. I love pierogi,” Peter says with a brilliant smile. “I’d love to meet your father.”

"Oh no," Stiles snaps. "I'm not letting you sink your creepy little claws into my dad.”

"I don't know why you're so frightened of me all the sudden," Peter tilts his head and his mouth parts slightly. Blatantly scenting Stiles. "You smell terrified tonight.”

"I don't know, maybe it’s all the blood you’re coated in. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m naked. Maybe it’s the knowledge that you just brutally tore someone apart,” Stiles says sarcastically. He corrects. “I am still human. You look scary.”

“Kate deserved my wrath. I only wish I could have done more,” Peter says. He’s leaning against the window frame, his rock hard abs are crunched as he peers through the window. Stiles blames his sixteen year old hormones for noticing.

“What are you doing next?” Stiles asks. He moves a little closer.

“I’m going out of town. For a few months. I need to establish myself. I have a few irons in the fire that need reheating,” Peter says. He smiles smugly. “Try not to miss me too much.”

“I’ll do my best,” Stiles snarks. He watches as Peter pulls a hunk of blonde hair from his pocket and begins lacing it through the rough tar on the Stilinski roof. “You know I can just go and clean that when you leave?”

“Good point. Will you pass along a message to my alpha? I’ve taken care of the Argent woman,” Peter says. He lifts his chin a little, eyes flashing, and sniffs “Your dinner is ready.”

“Mhmm,” Stiles makes a noncommittal noise and reaches down to pull on his pants. He doesn’t want to break his line of sight long enough to put on a shirt though. “Well. Check in. With the pack and with me.”

“Anything you’d like,” Peter purrs. He slings the bloody shirt over his shoulder and slouches his hips at Stiles like they’re a weapon. They kind of are. “Take care, little pig.”

Stiles risks getting close enough to the window to close it. Then he goes and eats some pierogis.

***

“Ding dong, the witch is dead,” Stiles announces once Laura opens the hotel door. He holds up a carrying tray and rustles the bag in his other hand. “Kate is officially off the board and I brought coffee.”

Laura is in silky, blue pajamas. She’s plaiting her hair over her shoulder in quick, practiced movements. She moves aside to let him in. Derek is still in bed, back to the door. Stiles can tell he’s awake by his breathing. Laura sits on the bed and crosses one leg over the other and secures the braid with an elastic. Stiles leans against the tv stand again and frees one of the coffees from the holder.

“Do I smell nutmeg?” Laura asks softly. She looks tired, still sleep-rumpled. Stiles rubs a thumb over his nose and tries to figure out to say yes without sounding weird.

“Yeah. I got you a nutmeg mocha. I think you like those?” He settles on. Laura raises an eyebrow but collects her cup. Derek stirs enough to look over at them. Stiles can’t help the smile that pops up at his bed head. “Hey, sleepy. I got you a treat too.”

“Don’t like coffee,” Derek grunts and rolls back over.

When Stiles glances at Laura, she’s already watching him with a sharp eye. Stiles swallows nervously. He’s being weird. He’s about to be weirder.

“I know, big guy. Yours is a smoothie,” Stiles rumples his fingers through his buzz cut. “With chia seeds. You little freak. Who willingly puts frog eggs in their smoothies, huh?”

“Frog eggs,” Laura parrots. Her face is placid like a tundra. “Mom called them frog eggs.”

“He knows,” Derek murmurs. He sits up all the way. The bow of his slumped shoulders brings an urge out in Stiles to crawl on the bed behind him and wrap him in a hug. Laura looks at Stiles like she can read his mind. “His fortune telling must extend to coffee orders.”

“So, Peter’s gone,” Stiles barks to fill the awkward silence. Laura quirks her eyebrow further. “Maybe he can come home to a renovated house?”

“The quotes you collected—Thank you. I haven’t had time yet to call anyone,” Laura says. She takes a deep drink from her cup. “You’ve done a lot for my pack. I’m indebted to you.”

“Oh, hey, no,” Stiles says with a wave. “What kind of asshole would I be if I knew about it and didn’t do anything? And, well. We aren’t out of the woods yet. The Argents are in town. Probably to stay.”

“As long as they stay in line, we can manage,” Laura says. Stiles offers her the donut box and she carefully selects a maple bar. She takes a bite and then wipes some maple from her upper lip. “I will have to acknowledge them at some point.”

“I don’t think anyone knows the Hales have returned to Beacon Hills,” Stiles hedges around a mouthful of sprinkle donut. He swallows. “I bet you can push that meeting out a few months if you’re careful.”

“We can’t rebuild under the radar,” Derek grouses. He stands with a stretch and Stiles smiles at the little mole at the base of his spine that’s revealed. Thinks of every time he kissed it. Then Stiles straightens and tamps down those memories.

“You can’t,” Stiles says. He scratches the top of his head. “But there’s no reason you can’t do it from ‘New York’.”

“We’d need a liaison,” Laura says. She smiles at Stiles. “Do you think the contractors would work with a 15 year old?”

“I’m 16,” Stiles protests half-heartedly and Laura laughs. “Also, I’m sure my dad would help.”

“Your dad,” Laura says thoughtfully. “How would you explain your sudden friendship with the Hales?”

“Well,” Stiles says. He shifts a little and takes another bite. “We would tell him the truth.”

“Hold on, Big Eyes,” Laura says, sitting forward on the bed. “You only know because of your psychic whatever powers. Wolves don’t tell humans about ourselves. It’s how we stay safe.”

“My father would never betray your pack,” Stiles says, certain his heart is steady with honesty. “Not in a million years.”

“It’s not about your dad. At least not specifically,” Laura argues. Stiles frowns. “It’s just...A rule. A pack rule.”

“Look. I respect your traditions. But you have an opportunity to expand your pack’s horizons. My dad is the sheriff. He’s a valuable ally,” Stiles says. He takes another donut bite to consider his next words. “You need friends in high places. Ya know?”

“I remember the sheriff,” Derek cuts in. He crosses the room and picks up his smoothie. He makes a funny little face when he takes a drink and Stiles focuses back on the conversation. “He was...good.”

“Well,” Laura starts. She stops and visibly considers it. Her poker face is trash. “Okay. I will agree to meet him. And then I’ll decide.”

***  
His dad gets as far as hanging his holster on the coat rack before he freezes and turns to stare at Stiles. The quiet holds and Stiles smiles as normally as he can.

“Burgers?” His dad asks. His face pinches into one of suspicion. “What did you do?”

“God. I don’t know what I did to deserve this—this animosity, father-oh-mine,” Stiles says, turning back to his pan. The burger sizzles and his dad comes up behind him to peer at it carefully. “But it is a special occasion.”

“Is it?” His dad asks.

“We have dinner guests,” Stiles says and his dad hums. “Remember the Hales?”

“What? Like the Hales from the fires?”

“Well, yes. But maybe don’t bring that up immediately,” Stiles says. He flips a patty. “They’re in town and wanted to stop by.”

“The Hales...are in Beacon Hills. Because of their uncle, I assume? And they want to stop by our house. After four years of being M.I.A.? And you’re making burgers. Is that all correct? Just want to make sure we’re on the same page here,” John says and snags a tomato slice.

“Same page. Totally,” Stiles confirms with a nod. He prods a patty. “They’ll be here soon.”

“You know what, buddy? I’m gonna focus on the burgers. Whatever you’ve got cooking with the Hales is going to play second fiddle to that rare burger you’re about to put on a plate,” John says and claps his hands on Stiles’ shoulders. The doorbell rings and he gives Stiles a little shake. He turns to go open the door and calls over his shoulder, “I want that burger mooing, son.”

Dinner is...uncomfortable. Derek is silent and the gloom spilling fell his pores is oppressive. Laura is overly chipper, interrupts everyone, and is an overall headache. Stiles’ father is focused on his meal and has decided to take the path of least resistance in the face of Stiles’ shenanigans.

At a certain point, Laura must make a decision because she puts down her glass with such force that it cracks. John looks at her over his burger warily and she clears her throat. Derek sinks in his chair a little.

“Sheriff Stilinski,” she starts and John waves a hand at her.

“Call me John, Laura,” he says and she nods seriously.

“John. As you know, my family perished in a fire,” she says. Derek pushes his plate away. “What you may not know is that they were murdered. Because of who they were.”

“And who were they?” John asks. He’s put his food down and is leaning forward in his seat, the Stilinski curiosity gleaming in his eyes.

“Our people—my kin—were blessed by the original mother. Lilith. We are children of the moon and we wear the skin of her firstborn children. The wolves.”

The silence stretches. Stiles suppresses the urge to smack his forehead.

“Ah. And...this is your religion?” John asks politely.

“No. It’s who we are. Your kind calls us werewolves,” Derek says with a frown.

The Sheriff tries to exchange a look with Stiles who, in turn, tries to communicate how serious the Hales are with his eyebrows. His father furrows his brows back and Stiles sighs.

“You’re going to have to show him,” Stiles says out loud. “He isn’t going to believe you. Dad, don’t shoot anyone.”

“Don’t shoo—,” John sputters into a choked silence when Laura drops fang and flashes her crimson eyes. “Oh, hell.”

“We were slaughtered for nothing more than who we are,” Laura says around wicked teeth. Her voice is rough with tears. “And I need your help to fix my home.”

“I—Christ. Werewolves? What help do you—Werewolves, Stiles?” John says, eyes wide.

“Okay,” Stiles says. He steeples his fingers. “Dad. Your burger is going to get cold. Laura and Derek...and Peter are what is colloquially known as werewolves. They’re the good guys. They need our help.”

“I know the legends are scary but we aren’t like that. We are just like you. But we are hunted. It’s just us now. And the people who would kill us are here in town. We want to come home but we need to be safe. And my pack can’t be safe without your help,” Laura says. She’s human-looking again and she looks like an all-American tear-stained coed.

Stiles can hear his dad’s heart break.

“What can I do, Laura?” John asks, eyebrows knitted together in sincerity. “I want to help. The hunters are in Beacon Hills?”

“They are. The Argents. But what I need help with first is rebuilding my home,” Laura says. She dries her eyes with her sleeve. “I have the money. But I can’t let the Argents know my pack is back in town until we can defend ourselves.”

“Do you know who set the fire?” John asks and Laura’s eyes dart to Stiles.

“We think so,” Stiles says, taking point. “There’s a woman. Kate. She...Well. She has a connection to the fire.”

Derek bends his fork in half.

“Sorry,” he says softly. Stiles wants to reach for him. Derek carefully straightens the fork.

“I need you to broker repairs to the Hale estate, John. Stiles trusts you and I trust him. Once the estate is rebuilt, Derek and I can announce our return safely,” Laura says. She looks like a gust of wind could blow her over. “We want to come home.”

“Where will you stay during the repairs?” John asks and she exchanges a hopeful look with Stiles.

“There are a few cabins on our property that I don’t think anyone knows about,” Laura says. “We can lie low until the estate is ready.”

“Of course I’ll help. These Argents—How dangerous are they?” John asks.

“They’re deadly,” Derek says miserably. “The most evil humans I’ve ever met. They're the monsters.”

***

Later, Stiles is drying dishes and his dad is nursing a beer at the table. He’s just set a stack of plates in the cabinet when his dad sighs heavily.

“I remember when it happened. They were just kids. Derek was 16, Laura wasn’t much older. And just...God. It was just brutal what happened to them,” John says hoarsely. “And that was when we thought it was just an accident. But the fact that it was intentional? Murder? Those poor kids.”

“You’re doing a good thing, dad. Helping them fix their house,” Stiles says. He turns and leans against the counter. His dad is staring down into his beer. “They’re good people. Or...well. Wolves?”

His dad breaks into a quiet smile and he lifts his eyes to meet Stiles’. He shakes his head and says ruefully, “I knew the burgers were a con.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laura:   
> 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some canon-typical violence in this chapter. Thank you all for reading and commenting. Big huge thanks to my beta. You can find her on tumblr at alighterwood. I am open to constructive criticism, if you have any to offer.

It’s nearly four weeks before Peter calls Stiles. Stiles is returning from a morning run, the sweat trickling down his back is freezing against his overheated body. He jogs the last stretch up his front walkway and collapses on his steps. Running is still new to this body and every early run leaves Stiles drained and tired. But there is danger ahead and he needs to be ready. 

The loud music coursing through his earbuds gives way to the trill of his ringtone. He turns his arm to look at the phone in its armband holder. 

_ He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is calling.  _

Stiles reaches up to accept the call. 

“Sacrificed any virgins yet?” Stiles asks in greeting, leaning back on the steps. He inhales slowly, trying to ease his breathing. 

“ _ Very funny. But, no. I haven’t. That’s scheduled for Tuesday _ ,” Peter’s smooth voice trickles through his earbuds. “ _ I’m checking in, Master. _ ”

“Very good,” Stiles says. He inhales again, enjoying the crisp morning air. “Gold star, Petey.”

“ _ Do not call me that _ ,” Peter says sourly and Stiles finds that he’s grinning to himself. 

“Yeah, yeah. Well. How goes the reputation resurrection mission?”

“ _ Against all odds, returning from the near-dead is quite an ordeal. You wouldn’t believe it, but a phone call doesn’t generally suffice. A face-to-face has been required for almost every contact _ ,” Peter grouses. The background noise peaks for a moment, lots of voices and a strange echo effect filter through the phone. 

“Are you at the airport?” 

“ _ Close, train station _ ,” Peter answers. 

Stiles watches the sunrise streak through the morning clouds while Peter politely orders a drip coffee and a croissant from someone. 

“When will you be back?” Stiles asks. 

“ _ A few months still, _ ” Peter says. “ _ I’ll let you know when I know _ .”

“Alright. Check in soon. Call your alpha,” Stiles says. He heaves himself to his feet and unlocks the front door. He heads towards the kitchen and his Adderall. 

“ _ Yes, dear _ ,” Peter drawls and Stiles ends the call. He swallows his dose dry and snags a cup of coffee from his dad’s pot. 

“Who was that?” His dad asks, far too casually. He peeks at Stiles over the edge of his newspaper. 

“Peter,” Stiles responds, just as casually. He burns his tongue on the fresh coffee.

“I see you’re running now. For lacrosse?”

“What is with the 20 questions, daddy-o?” Stiles asks, sitting across from him at the table. “I’m running for my health. You could benefit from a jog a few times a week too, old man.”

“I draw the line at jogging,” John says sternly. He sets the paper down completely. “You can take my hamburgers but you will not get me out there in a tracksuit. Drop it, kid.”

Stiles holds his hands up in surrender and his dad shoves his plate of turkey bacon across the table as a peace gesture. 

***

Laura and Derek don’t leave the hotel on the day that the construction company demolishes what remains of the Hale house. Stiles and his dad are on site in the morning, straight-faced and silent. The demo team works quickly, breaking down and hauling away debris and Stiles finally lets his dad drag him away after an hour and a half. 

They’re in the cruiser driving back towards town when Stiles speaks. 

“It’s not right. We got her--,” he breaks off. His throat burns. “We got her stuff. Her clothes and journals and movies. They don’t have anything.”

The Sheriff sniffs, nods. He reaches over and puts his hand on Stiles’ shoulder. He squeezes it firmly and then he puts both hands back on the steering wheel. 

They’re passing the Beacon Hills city limits sign when his dad suddenly perks up. 

“I have an idea, son,” John says. “We have to have some evidence boxes in storage from the fire.”

“I...never thought of that,” Stile says mostly to himself. His dad smiles over at him and Stiles returns the smile as honestly as he can. 

There isn’t much in storage. There are three computer hard drives. There are a handful of gasoline-soaked portraits in cracked frames and two legal filing cabinets. In the secured area, there’s a charred box containing a full silver set and a cardboard box of jewelry. Stiles runs his fingers over the knots of expensive silver and gold jewelry. Some of the metal is melted and all of it is covered with soot. 

Stiles lifts a locket from the nest of chains and links and carefully pries it open with a thumbnail. Inside is a small photo of Talia Hale and her husband. In another larger locket, there is a chubby pair of babies that could only be Derek and Laura. Stiles puts them aside with extra reverence.

In the end, they take everything but the filing cabinets. Stiles takes the box of jewelry to Ten Window’s William, a local jeweler, for cleaning and the damaged pictures to Swanson’s Photography. He takes the hard drives back to the house. 

While he’s waiting, Stiles explores the hard drives. 

The first contains what must be Talia’s computer files. There’s a myriad of media, mostly photos, and videos of the various members of the Hale pack. Stiles begins transferring a selection of photos to a thumb drive. The second contains almost a terabyte of scanned books. All rare, most in Latin or French. He backs those up to his own personal hard drive and sets it aside for later. 

The final hard drive is mostly corrupted but he is able to pull a handful of documents from it. There’s a draft of a living will, there are a few scans of various deeds in Talia Hale’s name. There’s a haphazardly typed family tree dating back six full generations. There’s a folder containing dozens of journal entries as well as a firmly written letter refusing an engagement to someone named Ariadne Westoff. The journals and the letter are signed ‘The Fortunate Son’. 

Further investigation into the journals leads Stiles to believe The Fortunate Son was someone who lived in Beacon Hills. A member of the Hale pack. A male. There wasn’t much to go off of as the journals were written in a purposefully vague style without any identifying names or locations. 

The craftiness leads Stiles to picture Peter typing away at his computer about the daily woes of an average werewolf. It makes him smile and Stiles pulls out his phone to send Peter a mocking text. Then, he reconsiders. Mocking someone using the only surviving artifacts from their home is a douche move. 

Instead, he collects his thumb drive of Hale photos and heads to the one-hour print shop. Once he’s submitted the photos, he busies himself with eating a burger for lunch. He idly texts Scott, setting up a gaming session later in the week, until the hours passed. Then, he collects and pays for the pictures and gets in his Jeep.

This is when he wonders if he’s overstepping. If he got too excited and acted without considering the actual moment where he hands the long-lost photographs of their happy family to them. 

While they sit, miserable, in a hotel in a town they once loved while their home is torn to shreds. 

And he sits in the Jeep, fingers wrapped around the crunchy paper packaging of the photos, and decides he’ll hold on to them. And once the house is ready, he’ll put together a photo album and it will be less weird as a housewarming gift.

Hopefully. 

***

Peter calls again a few nights later. 

Stiles is in bed, staring at the grooves in his ceiling until his vision distorts and shapes and images begin to pop out. He’s trying to follow a sinuous curving dog shape when his phone begins to vibrate from his bedside table. He contemplates ignoring it and leaving his attention with the snake-dog in his ceiling but then the caller ID proclaims Peter’s name. 

“What’s up, Petey?” Stiles asks, rolling onto his stomach so he can rest the phone on his pillow. 

The line is quiet but Stiles can make out a quiet shuffling noise. Some kind of paper tears and then there’s a quiet hiss. 

“Peter?” He asks, heart beating faster. “Are you alright?”

“ _ Getting there _ ,” comes the terse reply. Peter’s speaking through clenched teeth and he sounds strained. 

“Did you go knocking on the wrong door, Big Bad?” Stiles asks, aiming for casual. The slight waver in his voice and the shivering of his fingers betrays him. 

“ _ Apparently, there’s been a rash of ghoul uprisings _ ,” Peter says after a beat. A roll of tape pulls and rips. “ _ My contact assumed, incorrectly, that I was both dead and that I was part of this mass-rising and staked me. Well, perhaps ‘impaled’ is a more accurate term.” _

“Huh,” Stiles says. “I guess he was mis- _ staken _ .”

Peter disconnects the line. 

Stiles : 

yeah fair 

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named; 

Don’t tell Laura about my mishap. I’m honestly not certain why I told you. 

Stiles:

u n ur secrets. won’t tell Laura 

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named:

Good evening, Stiles 

Stiles:

be careful. night

Stiles sets his phone down for a moment, picking it again almost immediately. He goes into his contact settings and edits Peter’s entry. Then he tries to sleep.

In the morning, he stops trying to sleep and sits up. His neck hurts from him laying in complete stillness for seven hours and he takes the time to roll it before checking his phone. There is a handful of messages from Scott and Isaac and one other one. 

Peter:

Thank you for answering. 

***

Derek and Laura don’t visit the Hale estate until the foundation is laid and the frame is up. 

Stiles cajoles them into a carefully unscheduled schedule of dinners and late night runs in other wooded areas of Beacon Hills as distractions. Laura remains a bundle of stress, oscillating from inappropriately chipper to rageful at the drop of a hat. Derek is sullen, folded inward and prickly to the touch. 

It takes a brutal attack to break them from their frozen grief . 

Stiles and Derek are returning from a pre-dawn jog. They’ve settled into a pattern of Derek running ahead and looping back to the still out-of-shape Stiles. Derek is at the peak of his loop, nearly a quarter-of-a-mile ahead when something slinks from the brush on Stiles’ left. 

A woman dressed in a knee-length ruby red gown. Her long, matted blonde hair has sprigs of dried baby’s breath in it and she has pale, almost blue skin. The bodice of her gown has torn to reveal a Y-incision dotted with black thread. Stiles’ eyes take in her hands which have finger-bones jutting out from the fingertips and the unnatural fangs lining her mouth. 

She’s frothing at the mouth, shaking her head and dripping thick saliva from around needle-point teeth. She doesn’t growl or roar and that’s ten times more unsettling. The forest is silent aside from the leaves crunching beneath her bare feet. Her pale, silvery eyes reflect the weak sunlight drifting through the trees and Stiles finds himself frightened for the first time in a long time. 

She advances slowly, white eyes focused hungrily on Stiles. Stiles is afraid to call out for Derek, afraid to run, afraid to flinch. He isn’t sure what will set off the creature but he does know that he won’t have more than a few moments to live once it decides to attack. 

The woman gets within a few yards and Stiles’ lizard brain goes from freeze to flight in a rush of acrid adrenaline. Stiles is running full-tilt, feet scrabbling in the leaves. He’s falling, using his hands to push himself, dashing as fast as he can towards Derek. 

“Derek,” he calls hoarsely. His lungs are heaving as he races down the pathway. He can hear the creature on his heels, still silent. “Derek! Oh, God--Come on! I could use a hand!”

Derek meets him on the path, already in his beta form, and he neatly maneuvers around Stiles to crouch and roar at the feral woman. She doesn’t flinch, twisting and sliding around Derek to make a vicious swipe at Stiles. Her finger bones connect, slicing through Stiles’ shirt and hooking into his stomach. They rip through his skin and he gasps at the white-hot pain shooting through his nerves. Derek digs his own claws into the woman’s shoulders and throws her off to the side, away from Stiles. 

Derek keeps himself between Stiles and the woman. Stiles holds both hands over his stomach, twisting with Derek to keep his eyes on the woman. 

“You have to run, Stiles,” Derek snaps over his shoulder. 

The woman took the split-moment of distraction to leap forward and drive its claws into Derek’s gut. Derek falls back, stumbling and then regaining his footing with his hands out to guard Stiles. The creature is wholly focused on Stiles, ignoring Derer until she realizes he won’t let her touch Stiles and attacking again. 

“I’m not leaving you,” Stiles yells back. “You can take her.”

“I can’t protect you and fight,” Derek spits back then he roars at the woman again. 

Stiles inhales through the pain to think. Undead. Zombie? No, people can’t grow fangs. Undead. Fangs. No pain. Hunger for human flesh. Zombie?  _ No _ , Stiles. Then, like silk in the wind, Peter’s voice slides through his mind.  _ Ghoul uprisings _ .

“It’s a ghoul,” he shouts. Derek cranes his neck to give him a so-what sneer. Stiles begins to lift his bloodied hands to run them over his scalp but catches himself and presses them back to his stomach. “Fuck. What did Peter say--Impale it! You have to impale it.”

“I can’t even touch it! How am I supposed to impale it?”

“You  _ hav _ e to leave me alone. I know you can do this. Get a big--Fuck--,” Stiles yelps as the ghoul makes another dash around Derek to gouge her claws into his side. Derek pulls her away again, snaps her knee in from the front with a brutal kick and a sickening crunch, but she doesn’t even seem to notice. Derek forces them further back until they’re at the base of a tree. 

Stiles reaches up, scrabbles to get a hold of the nearest branch. His stomach and side wounds scream in pain but he pushes through it to pull himself up. He gets his leg over another branch and then he’s on his stomach across two branches. Derek redoubles his efforts to take down the ghoul, sliding around her to kick her other knee out. 

He misses and she drives her claws down into his chest, drizzling her thick saliva across his blood-stained undershirt. She raises her arm, drawing back for another brutal tear of claws and then Laura is crashing into her from the side. Laura and the ghoul roll a handful of yards across the ground and then Laura is lifting its head into the hair by the hair. She drops the head and turns to watch the ghoul’s body, hair floating over her shoulder in a black wave. 

The body continues to move, crawling towards Stiles’ tree. 

“Impale it,” Stiles offers weakly, woozy from blood loss and his adrenaline levels crashing. “Impale the body.”

Derek peers around before visibly locating a nearby jagged branch. He hefts the headless torso and drops it onto the branch, then dusts his hands off once it goes still. 

“Get our little human out of the tree,” Laura says with a harried expression. “We need to get him to the hospital.”

“My dad is going to ground me until I’m forty,” Stiles says miserably, reaching grabby hands down to Derek. Derek helps him down with gentle hands and sets him carefully on his feet. His expression is a strange one, worry and surprise mixing to leave him openly vulnerable. Decoding this Derek’s microexpressions is a cakewalk compared to his other timeline’s stoic, granite-carved Derek. “Are you okay? You look constipated.”

“It’s nothing,” Derek says. His face smoothes a little but there’s still a little pinch between his eyebrows. Stiles is just light-headed enough to reach up and smooth his thumb over the crinkle. 

“It’s okay, big guy,” Stiles says. “I knew you could do it.”

Then, he succumbs to his exhaustion.

***

The hospital lights are glaring, sending spiraling bokeh lights across his vision. He groans and tries to sit up, only to be stopped by a hand on his chest. 

“Stay down,” Derek’s voice rumbles. There’s an undercurrent of a growl in his voice and when Stiles finally forces his eyes to focus Derek is there. He’s backlit by the fluorescents, pinch-faced and so close Stiles can count his eyelashes. 

“Hi, baby,” Stiles says softly, relief at being home again flooding his voice with warmth. 

He reaches for Derek’s face only for Derek to catch his hand and press it back to Stiles’ own chest firmly. Derek darts a nervous glance across the bed and a few things slot into place. 

Firstly, this is not his original timeline. Second, his father is sitting on the other side of his bed with his eyebrows raised to his hairline. And finally, his everything hurts. 

“Oh fuck,” Stiles says, closing his eyes. A blush rises to his cheeks and he groans again from embarrassment. He hasn’t blushed in a decade. This younger body is hell. “Hi, pop.”

“Hi, son,” John says. “I have a few points of discussion on the itinerary. Let’s start with the ghouls? Because you failed to mention the ghouls when you sprung the whole werewolf thing on me. We can circle back to the whole secret werewolf boyfriend thing.”

“I hate ghouls,” Stiles says with feeling. He feels his stomach and sides gingerly, finding them heavily bandaged. “Do I have stitches? I feel like some of those were bad enough for stitches.” 

“Stiles,” Derek says pointedly and Stiles eyes him warily. 

“Father,” Stiles says, slumping back on his pillow to look a little more pathetic. Judging by his father’s eyebrows, it is not a successful attempt. “I do  _ not  _ have a secret werewolf boyfriend.”

“Yeah? You just call anyone ‘baby’? Maybe we can get Scott in here and test that,” his dad says, hiding a mean, little smile. “Do all of your little friends wait at your bedside like you’ve got consumption and they’ve just returned from the war?”

“ _ Okay _ ,” Stiles and Derek say at once. 

“I’m going now,” Derek says firmly, standing up. “I’m sorry I wasn’t faster with the ghoul. Laura will want to see you soon.”

Stiles and John watch him march out the doors in silence. 

“I wish I had a secret werewolf anything,” Stiles says once he’s reasonably sure Derek is out of earshot. “I’m pretty sure I’m going to be single until college. My genius is under-appreciated by my peers. Once I hit the higher-education group? It’s over for everyone.”

“Oh, yeah? ‘Great start. What’s your major going to be? Town tramp?’” His dad quotes, placing a gentle hand on the Stiles’ torso where the bandages are. His dad only plays the Cher game when he’s feeling particularly emotional. When Stiles’ mom was alive, she had an obsession with movies starring Cher. Stiles had grown up immersed in a constantly-running catalogue of questionable films. 

“‘No, Dad’,” Stiles says, finishing the quote. “‘The town already has one.’”

“I love you, kid. Please—,” the Sheriff breaks off, voice suddenly cracking. “Please be more careful.” 

“I will. I’m sorry for—for all of it,” Stiles says. Guilt gnaws in his stomach. He really has been careless. Altering the timeline means that anything could be different. Just because there weren't any attacks or evil druids his sophomore year doesn’t mean there won’t be now. 

He wishes then, more than anything, that he could call Lydia and ask her for advice. She’d be able to make a control-flow graph of every possible discrepancy from his actions. He wishes he could lay his troubles at Scott’s door and pick them up on the way out. He wishes Derek  _ would _ hold him. 

He wishes Peter could put his head together with Stiles and point out each and every issue with their defenses. These people, while inherently the same as his own timeline, couldn’t be more different. 

Well. Peter is still extremely evil and untrustworthy. So, that’s consistent across the board. 

It is very interesting that Peter mentioned ghouls and one just happened to show up in Beacon Hills. And try and kill Stiles. Very interesting.

Stiles waits to be discharged and sent home before he texts Peter. His dad has finally left him alone downstairs on the couch to watch TV. 

Stiles:

ur gift arrived 

Peter:

Whatever do you mean?

Stiles:

too bad for u. i lived, puppy 

Peter doesn’t respond. 

***

It’s late when Stiles wakes up. He turns his head wearily to the window, trying to orient himself. He’s still downstairs on the couch. The moon is outside the bay window, a silver sliver in the dark sky. He sighs, swallowing against the pain in his body. 

“It hurts?” A voice asks from the darkness and Stiles’ pulse leaps when he sees blue eyes in the darkness. Then, his brain catches up and realizes it’s Derek leaning against the wall. 

“Christ,” he gasps, holding a hand to his chest. “I hate that sneaky bullshit. I really am going to get you a bell one day. How did you even get in here?

Derek rolls his eyes and crosses the room to sit on the edge of Stiles’ couch. He holds out a hand, faltering, and then he peels down Stiles’ blanket. Stiles’ breath catches in his throat as Derek pulls up the hem of his t-shirt, revealing a thick padding of bandages. 

Derek presses his hand to the bare skin above the bandage, right against Stiles’ ribs. Pain leeches out, traveling in dark trails up Derek’s arm. Stiles sinks back into the pillows in relief. 

“Your dad broke the ash for me,” Derek says, brows furrowed and eyes focused on his own hand. He’s quiet and Stiles allows himself to relax. “He put it back.”

“You’re trapped in here with me,” Stiles says blearily. He sighs, comfort soaking his entire body. 

“Maybe you’re the one trapped,” Derek says softly. It doesn’t sound like a joke. He moves his hand higher to the other bandage. 

“What’s that mean?”

“It means I’m bad luck,” Derek says, almost as an afterthought. 

“That’s bullshit,” Stiles sighs. “You aren’t bad luck.”

“I’m just cursed then.”

“Come on, big guy,” Stiles says. He grabs Derek’s wrist. “You’re amazing.”

“You really believe that,” Derek says, surprise shading his voice. “I didn’t really—The way you look at me sometimes.”

“How do I look at you?” Stiles asks, bracing internally for an awkward conversation.

“Like I can do anything. Like I can protect you,” Derek says. His voice is rough. He won’t look at Stiles’ face. 

Understanding blooms in Stiles. 

“Hey,” he says, sitting up. “You can do anything. You can protect me. I knew you had my back in the forest today.”

“I don’t understand how you can think that after what I did,” Derek says. His voice has steadied and emptied itself of all emotion. “After all the people I killed.”

“You didn’t kill anyone, stupid,” Stiles snaps. He prods Derek in the chest. Derek keeps his eyes down but he pulls his hand back. Stiles reaches for it and puts it back on his side. “Wait, don’t take your magic hands away.”

Derek rolls his eyes but he leaves his hand in place. 

“Derek, it might not seem like it but you’re something really special. You’re something most people don’t get to be. You’re a hero,” Stiles says. “You locked yourself behind mountain ash to steal my pain. Just because you’re you.”

Derek scoffs.

“I’m serious,” Stiles says firmly. “You’re a hero. You’re the epic knight in a romance novel. You are honorable, you have integrity, you’re blindingly attractive—Well. The last part doesn’t directly speak to your character but it does certainly add to the whole Sir Lancelot thing. Wow. Now I’m just objectifying you after you revealed your vulnerable inner thoughts—“

“Stiles,” Derek says with a heartbreaking smile tucked away in the corner of his mouth. “I get it.”

“Yeah?” Stiles asks, smiling despite himself. “You’re learning how to hablo Stiles?”

“I think I’m picking some of it up,” Derek says. 

They just sit there smiling at each other for a moment and then the moment is broken by the vibrating of Stiles’ phone. 

It’s a text from Peter. 

“It’s late,” Derek says, looking at the screen. “I should get going.” 

“Yeah, no problem,” Stiles says. Derek pulls him to his feet by his upper arms and Stiles hobbles to the door. 

He flicks the ash line away, stepping aside so Derek can exit the house. Derek looks back halfway down the walkway and Stiles waves at him. Then, he resets the line with a wave of his hands and makes his way back to the couch. 

Peter:

Call me.

The phone rings three times and Stiles is about to hang up when the line connects. 

“ _ Hello _ ,” Peter says. Stiles can hear the smug smile in his voice. 

“What do you want?” Stiles asks, irritation flooding him. “God. You suck, do you know that? Who sicks the evil undead on people?”

“ _ I’m sure I haven’t any idea what you mean _ ,” Peter says. “ _ I called for a reason, you know. _ ”

“And what might that be?” Stiles asks, easing himself down onto the couch. He groans as his muscles contract.

“ _ You sound hurt _ ,” Peter says cheerfully. “ _ I suppose the ghoul was rather formidable _ .”

“What do you want, Peter?” 

“ _ I need you to make sure I get a certain room in the Hale house _ ,” Peter says. 

“You texted me at—,” Stiles peers at his screen. “Four in the morning to talk to me about bedrooms?”

“ _ Yes _ ,” Peter says overly-sincere. 

“Are you sure about that?” Stiles asks. He pops two pain pills. There’s a glass of water beside him and he washes the pills down. 

“ _ I’m certain _ ,” Peter replies. 

“Uh-huh,” Stiles says. “Well. I’m going to bed. Don’t send any more monsters after me.”

Then, Stiles hangs up. 

***

Decorating is complicated. Derek wants to keep everything the way it was, recreate his childhood home. Laura wants it to be completely distanced from memory. 

Everything goes to shit when Derek and Stiles come home after a run to a pea-green velvet couch in the sitting room and a giant framed poster of a rooster above the mantle.

Derek doesn’t say a word. He just turns and walks back out the door. Laura stands in the sitting room, eyes flashing red behind tears. 

“Laura,” Stile starts and she swipes her sleeve across her eyes.

“I know he doesn’t like it,” Laura says harshly. “But I can’t stand the idea of—of coming into a room and it looking exactly the same as it used to but they aren’t  _ there _ . I don’t want to forget them but I don’t want to be gut-punched every time I come around a corner.” 

Stiles wraps an arm around her shoulder. Laura presses her face into his neck, shoulders shaking. She’s making these awful hurt noises against him and he squeezes her as tight as he can. 

“We can fix this,” Stiles says into her hair. He was going to hang onto the family photos a little longer but this feels like an appropriate time to return them. 

She makes a curious sound, nuzzles in a little closer. She and Derek seem to have forcibly adopted Stiles into their pack, scenting him frequently and shadowing him around town. 

“I have an idea,” he says and pulls her in for another tight hug. 

***

Three hours later, Stiles sticks a final Command Strip in the entryway wall. Laura comes behind him, hanging a large portrait of her mother and father embracing beneath an apple tree. She runs her fingers along the frame and sniffles. She’s been weepy throughout hanging each photo. Turning, she takes in the myriad of photos she and Stiles have framed and hung in the house. 

“Thank you,” she murmurs, crossing to rub her head against his shoulder. “Thank you for finding the pictures. And thank you for knowing when to give them to us.”

“There’s something else,” Stiles says. He pulls a folded up packet of paper from his back pocket. “I wanted to be sure before I told you.”

Laura is silent as she unfurls the packet and absorbs the information. 

“This can’t be true,” she breathes. She collapses on the green couch. “It can’t. I would have known.”

“It is true,” Stiles says. The front door creaks open and Derek makes his way gingerly into the room. Stiles watches his eyes survey every photo on the walls and shelves. “I made sure.”

“Derek,” Laura says. She holds out the packet with shaking hands. 

Stiles bounces on his toes, nervous and excited as Derek reads the information packet he’s put together on Cora Hale’s current location. 

**Three Months Later**

The forest is cold today. Mist trickles down from the mountains and lends the Hale preserve a cold, muted tone. Stiles pulls his hoodie closer around himself and leans to bump a companionable shoulder against Derek’s. Derek leans into him briefly, eyes focused ahead like blue lasers. 

This Derek is different in a thousand ways from Stiles’. He still smiles, for one. It’s always stained with sorrow, but he runs off instead of breaking stuff. Stiles loves this Derek in a much different fashion then he loved his own. This Derek is softened by loss, not forged in it. Once, other-timeline-Derek and Stiles had spent five and a half hours on the phone in the middle of the night. Stiles had been in the Memorial Glade on campus, laying in the dew-damp grass under the stars. Derek had spoken of Laura being his second half, of being confused for twins, of never  _ ever _ being okay without her. They talked until Derek’s goofy flip-phone had died and Stiles had laid there until the sun’s early bleach-white rays had crept over the entire glade. 

This Derek has retained his Laura, and with her, his humanity. And the werewolf tendency to be overly touchy-feely. 

“You smell sad,” Derek says plainly. He peeks over at Stiles. “Why?”

“This weather is ass,” Stiles misdirects. “Where’s the sunshine? Isn’t this California?”

“It’s the Pacific Northwest, Stiles,” Derek says with a snort. “Not Malibu.”

“I want a road trip,” Stiles whines, looping an arm around Derek’s neck. Derek nuzzles against his jaw and Stiles melts a little. He pinches Derek’s stubbly cheek and coos, “You’re the only motherfucker in this town who can handle me.”

“I never know what you’re talking about,” Derek says with a fond eye roll. Stiles remembers that St.Vincent doesn’t drop that song for another six years. 

“I know, I know,” Stiles says. He lets Derek go and watches him lope ahead a few yards. Derek is barefoot on the moss, shoulders bared in a thin tank top. Stiles envies his wolfy warmth. 

Being around the Hales is like surfacing for air. They don’t have a frame of reference for sixteen-year-old Stiles, not like his dad or Scott. He doesn’t have to put on a front with them. He can just be himself. It’s freeing in many ways. 

“Cora will be here soon,” Derek says, turning back with a serious expression. “Do you think her room will be ready?”

“She’s still a week out? Yeah, it’ll at least be painted. We could pick out furniture with her? I don’t know what she’s bringing with her,” Stiles says. He’s freezing. 

“I’ll call her later,” Derek says and he waits for Stiles to catch up before he puts his arm around Stiles. “House is close.”

“I’m not that cold,” Stiles lies and Derek rolls his eyes and pulls Stiles closer. 

Stiles smiles up at him, enjoying the closeness and the smell of Derek. Derek looks down at him when he huffs a laugh.

And it is just that simple to lean in and brush his lips against Derek’s. 

And the sweet little hitch of Derek’s breath urges him to curl a hand into the soft hair at the nape of his neck and press that little bit closer. The kiss lingers, sweet and slow. 

“Stiles,” Derek says gruffly, pulling back. His eyes are closed, brow furrowed. Then he opens his eyes and blue sparks fade in them. “I can’t. You’re….how old are you? Sixteen?”

“Sixteen?” Stiles sputters, before realizing that he kind of is. He sighs. “And a half.”

“I’m sorry. You’re….You‘re great. But I’m essentially twenty,” Derek continues and he takes Stiles’ hands in his. Derek meets his eyes sincerely. “I can’t. You’re too young.”

“You are a real gentlewolf, Derek Hale,” Stiles says. He closes his own eyes for a moment to resettle. “Thank you for giving a shit. I really do appreciate you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Stiles says, meaning it. He pulls his hands back and starts walking. “I got caught up in the moment. Hormones, ya know? I haven’t gotten laid in--Well. Ever.”

This body was 100% virginal. Like fresh, driven snow. What a concept. 

“Alright,” Derek says slowly. He catches up to Stiles easily. “We’re good?”

“Absolutely,” Stiles says honestly. This isn’t his Derek. “We are one hundred percent good.”

“Alright,” Derek says again, with conviction. He bumps Stiles’ shoulder with his. Then, he jerks his head up and looks to the left. He tenses, “Laura is calling me.”

“On, Prancer,” Stiles says with a wave. “I can get back from here.” 

Derek nods, eyes searching, then he’s jogging off into the brush. 

It’s a few moments of that oppressively silent fog and the crunch of Stiles’ shoes when he feels eyes on him. He slows his heart, remaining casual and waits for his stalker to make a misstep. Half a moment later, hands close around his arms from behind and breath tickles his ear. 

“Little pig,” Peter growls. He presses his nose against Stiles’ skull so hard it hurts. His teeth click as he grits them. “You’re so far from safety.”

“I’m shaking in my sneakers,” Stiles scoffs. “You’ve been gone a quarter of a year. Do you know what I’ve accomplished? Do you think Derek and Laura will just roll over if you kill me?”

“Clever pig,” Peter amends, stroking one hand up to grab Stiles’ jaw and turn him. 

Stiles meets his eyes head-on and he feels for the small bag of mountain ash he’s got in his pocket. It won’t kill Peter but it will make him hurt. Especially a near-omega Peter who has been away from his pack for so long. 

“Welcome back, puppy,” Stiles says, pushing it. He grins at his own snark. Peter’s expression of thoughtfulness fades to one of mirth. 

“Laura said Cora is alive?” Peter asks, casual and friendly like they’re meeting for coffee. “That’s a nice surprise.”

“I’m full of ‘em,” Stiles says. He holds his arms out. “Like a haunted house. Or a gender reveal party!”

“Or a  piñata ,” Peter says with an eyebrow raised. 

Stiles mimes swinging a bat and then bounces a little. Peter looks him up and down, sneering at his hoodie/plaid combo, Stiles is sure. He keeps walking and a beat later, Peter approaches his left side. Peter has his arms crossed behind his back, chin up. 

“So, a lot has happened in three months,” Peter says, leadingly. He smiles a little to himself. It’s a gentle, worldly smile and Stiles braces for the worst. “You’re panting after my nephew now. I suppose it must be difficult to convince the other humans to get close to all that plaid.”

“Get new material,” Stiles sighs. He spares a glance at Peter’s outfit. It’s all black and too tight. “Are you wearing women’s jeans?”

“Touché,” Peter murmurs. 

“I suppose you had lots of glorious sex in whatever exotic secret place you just came from,” Stiles says, exasperated. Peter can get some probably whenever he wants. Stiles’ is a pale, stringy sixteen-year-old again. It’s going to be years. 

“I’ll give you a clue. Bikini tops optional and passport required,” Peter says smugly. He peers over at Stiles, not blinking fast enough. He inhales slowly and obviously through his nose. “You’re just itching for it.”

“It?”

“To get fucked,” Peter says darkly, liquid sex curling around his consonants. 

Stiles’ brain goes offline. Once he reboots, he’s horrified to find that he’s got a half-chub. “Jesus, Peter. Was that a come-on?”

“Sorry,” Peter says. “Did I touch a nerve?”

“I’m not even going to feel bad for you when I kill you,” Stiles says. He recognizes his marker on a tree decreeing he’s close to the Hale orchard. He crosses his arms, squints. “‘In time, you’ll drop dead and I’ll come to your funeral in a red dress.’”

“ _ Moonstruck _ ?” Peter asks, his smug expression disappearing into a true laugh. “Where did you see  _ Moonstruck _ ?”

“That’s not really your business, is it?” Stiles asks snidely. His mind carries him to his eight-year-old self, watching every last Cher movie with his mom in the hospital on repeat. The redwoods give way to fruit trees and Stiles exhales heavily. He’s just stepping from the moss to the soil when Peter grabs his arm. A little shock of thrill echoes through him. 

“It was a come on,” he says. Stiles balks. “No, really.”

“Uh-huh,” Stiles says, lip curled. “I’m sure it’s not just a clumsy maneuver.”

“I’m sure you’ve gathered--,” Peter starts. He closes his eyes and smiled ruefully to himself. Then, he opens his eyes and they’re that same electric blue as Derek’s. “I’m sure you’ve noticed my attraction to power.”

“Sure, we can call it that,” Stiles laughs, incredulous. 

“You’re an atomic bomb,” Peter says. “‘I hope your mango’s ripe.’”   
  


“My  _ what _ ? My mango? Is that some pervy comment about--”

“ _ You’ve Got Mail _ ? The movie?”

“I haven’t seen most nineties movies. Stop trying to bond with me over romcom lines,” Stiles says good-naturedly. He missed banter dearly. Even Peter’s banter. The other Hales are too even-keeled to get up a good banter. Derek will play along sometimes but he always ends it with a tackle. “You’re going to have to try harder to honeypot me, Hale.”

Peter drops his gaze, curving one big hand around Stiles’ neck. He lets his claw slip out, they scratch across Stiles’ jugular and he bares terrible teeth. Fear floods Stiles’ body and he watches Peter’s tongue slip across the top row of his razor sharp fangs. Stiles flushes back into a semi. He allows himself a moment to collect himself and then he’s pushing Peter back a little. He stumbles back a few steps and collects his breath. 

“Watch yourself, puppy. ‘God is angry with the wicked! Why did you send the black devil for me?’” Stiles calls once he’s breathing normally again and walking backwards into the orchard. Peter stands at the edge of the forest, a crooked smile on his face, and then follows through the fruit trees.

Stiles very purposefully does not consider the soft sunshine breaking through the redwoods or how the light highlights the carved panes of Peter’s face. He doesn’t imagine those big, soft hands all over his body. He doesn’t think of being pulled back against Peter’s body or pushed beneath it. 

Claws in his hair, drawing down his back. The rumble of a growl against his sternum. Teeth set into the edge of his hip.

He doesn’t think of it even for a moment. 

*** 

Stiles sits on the newly built railing to the porch and watches the Hales peacefully. They’re arguing over the throw pillow placement for the porch swings. Laura is hanging back, allowing Derek and Peter to duke it out. At some point, Stiles realizes she’s watching him watch them. Laura crosses the deck to rub her palm over Stiles’ jaw and neck and then she hops up beside him. Stiles waits for her to speak, head down and feet kicking against the railing. Finally, she does. 

“Stiles,” she starts. Her voice is thick with emotion, it brings an unexpected lump to Stiles’ throat. “You’ve brought back my pack. And my home. Thank you.”

“Oh, well. Anytime, man,” Stiles says softly. He pats her shoulder and she smiles at him. 

“You’re invaluable to me, Big Eyes,” she says back, just as soft. “I can’t wait for you to meet Cora.”

“I can’t wait either,” Stiles says honestly. He’s always liked Cora. He gives Laura a side hug and hops off the railing. “I have to go meet Scott and Isaac soon. Saturday practice.”

“Isaac?” Peter asks, voice like silk. He leaves Derek to the pillow placement. He remembers the name from Stiles’ pack proposal.

“He’s a new buddy,” Stiles says. “At school.”

“Do you need a lift to practice?” Peter asks casually, plucking lint off his black chinos. “I need to get a few things from town anyways.”

“My Jeep is here,” Stiles says cheerfully. “Thanks though.”

Peter nods, giving up the fight easily.

Too easily, Stiles discovers when he finally makes it to his Jeep twenty minutes later and the front tire has a nail drove into it. His spare has a matching one. 

“Jesus,” Stiles sighs. He clambers back up the steps, pushing open the front door with a heavy sigh. “Peter? Does that offer for a ride still stand?”

“Of course,” Peter says from his elegant pose against the mantle. He looks like he fell out of a Vogue Italia shoot. “I’m always happy to help our little human friend.”

“I think you just call them friends,” Derek snarks from the couch. 

Peter laughs with too many teeth and makes his way over to Stiles. He’s driving an insanely frivolous sports car, something black and slick. Stiles puts his feet on the dash immediately. The car is low enough that it scrapes coming from the Hale road to the freeway and Peter resolutely does not flinch. 

“You’re ridiculous. You need a truck out here. Everyone is going to think I got a sugar daddy when you drop me off,” Stiles bitches, smearing his dirty footprints on the carpet. “Can you drop me off around the corner?”

“No,” Peter says, illegally passing two cars. He smiles when they honk. “I want to meet my future beta.”

“He’s just going to think you’re a freak,” Stiles says, raising an eyebrow. Scott and Isaac know Stiles has been hanging with the Hales but it’s going to be different when Peter is there in the flesh. 

“Either way,” Peter says. “When do you change into your...costume?”

“I know that you know it’s called a jersey,” Stiles shoots back. “I know you were on the basketball team. I’m on to you. Also, I cannot afford new tires.”

“Anyone can Google, Stiles,” Peter drawls, ignoring the tire comment. “Or check the trophy shelves at BH High, for that matter.”

Stiles bites his tongue and braces against the door as Peter rips through two separate red lights. 

“Do you know that a car accident could easily kill me?” Stiles asks loudly, clutching the safety handle. 

“Well, you could always accept the bite,” Peter says lightly. He turns a shrewd look on Stiles. “But not Laura’s.”

“Why not Laura’s?” Stiles asks, meeting Peter’s eyes. They burn blue. Peter drags his gaze back out the windshield. 

“You’re mine. My pack. If anyone is going to bite you, Stiles, it will be me. I’ll bestow that gift,” Peter says, a wolfish growl underlying his words. “I don’t think I could bear you being anyone else’s beta.”

“Well,” Stiles hedges. He drums his fingers over his leg. The energy in the car has turned tense. Peter’s fingers gnarl and twist on the steering wheel, sprouting coarse hair and wicked claws. Stiles ignores the heat curling in his belly and grasps his knees. “Why?”

“You’re an interesting creature,” Peter says, trailing claws over the steering wheel. Stiles pictures them moving over his own skin. “I wonder about you, Stiles.”

“And what, exactly, do you wonder about?” Stiles asks. 

“I wonder,” Peter drawls. Stiles hunches over his legs a little more and concentrates on his heartbeat. “I wonder why you look at me like we should be sharing an inside joke. Or why you don’t even flinch when Laura roars or bares her fangs. Not even a blip from your heart. How are you so comfortable around our kind? Are we really the only supernatural experiences you’ve had?” 

“I’m a human,” Stiles says and Peter tilts his head in concession. “An ordinary human.”

“That may be partially true,” Peter says. He folds his lupine hands primly on the wheel. “But you’re certainly not ordinary. Are you a seer? Or a witch?”

“No,” Stiles laughs. “Just a normal guy. Human though-and-through.”

“Then why do you touch Derek as if you know him?” Peter asks, voice suddenly thick with fangs. He’s still poised nonchalantly in his seat, claws curving around the wheel and eyes a frigid blue. “That familiarity suggests years of comfort.” 

“Just say it. Just tell me what you think I am,” Stiles snaps. 

“I have gaps. In my memory. Cleverly patched ones. But they exist. And you stroll into my nursing home and know exactly what it takes to fix me? To fix my family’s pack? You expect me to believe you’re just a normal human with the occasional vision? Not to mention the lack of fear. Stiles, I’m a merry murderer, you know that. And you still go toe-to-toe with me. You move like a trained assassin—but only when no one is watching. You aren’t a human boy.”

“What am I?”

“A demon? Some nasty spirit tucked away into a teenager’s body? You’re no more a sixteen year old than I am the Easter bunny,” Peter finishes, pulling a hard left into a parking space with the squeal of brakes. He puts the car into brake and leans across the console to catch Stiles’ face between his hands. “Tell me the truth. Why aren’t you scared of me?”

“You won’t hurt me,” Stiles says. He swallows. “You won’t hurt me.  _ Because _ I’m not scared of you. When’s the last time someone touched you with—fucking kindness? Huh?”

“Why aren’t you afraid?” Peter asks, too loud in this space. Stiles reaches up, places shaking hands over Peter’s. The fur on his hands is bristly under Stiles’ fingers. 

“You have to give me a reason to fear you.”

“The murder isn’t enough?” Peter asks from behind wolf teeth. “The destruction. The ruination.”

“ _ Okay _ , drama king,” Stiles says and rolls his eyes. Peter gives his head a little shake, growls. “Can we talk about this somewhere else?”

“No,” Peter says brusquely. He licks his fangs and his claws dig in just enough to prick Stiles’ skin. “Tell me.”

“Fine,” Stiles says and furrows his brow. He’s going to make Peter regret that. “Fine. Let’s talk about why I’m not afraid of you.”

“Do tell,” Peter says, looking almost lost. 

“Because you’re in love with me,” Stiles says and Peter balks. Stiles enjoys the little stab of true shock in his eyes. “You want to keep me forever and I know. You can’t scare me.”

“I’m honestly speechless,” Peter says, a laugh in his voice. “In love. You’re insane. That explains the lack of fear, right there.”

“Maybe not right now,” Stiles concedes. When he glances over, Danny is staring through the windshield with his mouth open. Stiles refocuses. “But soon you will be. I’m perfect for you. I think murder is a sometimes-solution and I think it’s kinda hot when you monologue alone in the woods.”

“Monologue...in the—,” Peter starts, bewildered.

“I’d kill with you, for you, in spite of you. I’d die before I let anything happen to Derek or Laura. And best of all,” Stiles tilts his chin up, lets the warmth of boasting into his voice. “I’m  _ smart _ . I’m very smart.”

“Yes,” Peter murmurs. His eyes are unfocused, distant and human. “I suppose you are.” 

“I’m not a demon. I’m not a ghost. I’m a Stiles. And I’m late for practice. You can meet Isaac after practice if you really need to. But right now, you’re going to let go of me,” Stiles finishes. He pulls carefully at Peter’s hands. Peter seems to have slipped away to some semi-fugue state. Stiles weighs skipping practice with staying and tending to him. Then he remembers his witness. When he turns, Danny is still standing in front of the car. Jackson is beside him, visibly chortling. They’re both in uniform. 

“Okay. Stop being weird. Snap out of it,” Stiles says and when Peter’s eyes move to look at him they’re guileless and electric blue again. Stiles has an inkling that he’s speaking with Peter’s wolf. “I’m getting out. You’re driving away. Come back at three.”

Peter-wolf nods, head tilting. He looks a little more normal. Stiles climbs out, sports bag in hand, and watches as Peter peels out of the parking spot. 

Then, he turns around. 

“Um.  _ Hi _ , Stiles,” Danny scoffs. “Who was that?”

“Family friend,” Stiles tries in a lilting voice. “Long-lost neighbor? Amelia Earheart, returned from an extended absence with an extra serving of beef?”

“Your boy scout leader?” Jackson laughs. Danny smacks him on his chest. 

“I’ll have you know, Whittemore, I was a boy scout. And jokes like that are why you had to go to space camp instead. The boy scouts wouldn’t have taken you,” Stiles jabs. He starts towards the locker room. Danny and Jackson follow him. 

“Stiles, I was a scout with you. You got kicked out after a week,” Danny says.

“Et Tu, Dannyboy?” Stiles says, faux-hurt. “Where’s the bro code?”

“You and Danny aren’t bros,” Jackson snorts. “Even if you are both gay now.”

“I’m not gay. And it was two weeks,” Stiles sighs. He has no interest in coming out as bi in any way shape of form to Jackson. The locker room is empty and he begins dressing down. Jackson averts his eyes all the way to the ceiling but Danny hisses once he pulls his jeans down. 

“God, Stiles,” he says. “Seriously, are you alright?”

Ah. Stiles forgot about the hip-to-knee bruise he’s currently sporting. And the curving, puckered scars still healing across his torso. The bruise has gone green and yellow at this point but it’s still quite a sight. He’d gotten it 100% without werewolf input, trying to hide from Derek in a tree and falling out of said tree. He pulls his shorts on over his jockstrap and ignores them both. 

“Your sugar daddy isn’t actually beating your ass, is he?” Jackson asks, peering at the healing wounds with interest. 

“Were you guys fighting in the car?” Danny interjects. 

“Okaay. One, I’m not banging that guy. Two, if I was, and he was beating me, why would I tell either of you?” Stiles asks. He pulls his jersey on and then starts lacing his cleats up. He looks up at their grimaces and sighs. “You guys are late now. Aren’t you cap, Jackson?”

“I’ll just tell Coach you needed moral support, Stilinski,” Jackson says. “You need relationship counseling.” 

“Back off,” Stiles snaps, finally over the teenage bitterness. “Both of you can just unstick your noses from my business.”

“Fuck off, Stilinski,” Jackson shoots back and he stalks out of the locker room. 

Danny lingers.

“What?” Stiles asks with a heavy sigh. He’s getting a headache. 

“Is he why you’ve stopped hitting on Lydia and me all the time?”

“Ah,” Stiles says. This brings pause to him. He puts his hands on his hips and rolls his neck a little. The truth is that Stiles has forgotten what a miserable little creep he used to be. He turns towards Danny and smiles with chagrin. “Well. Danny, I’m sorry for being so weird for so long. That was so, so very uncool. From the bottom of my heart, my bad.”

“It’s alright,” Danny says. His mouth twists. “Honestly, I kinda miss it.”

“That’s known as Stockholm Syndrome, my dude,” Stiles says with a true smile and Danny laughs. Stiles ruffles his fingers over his buzz cut and sighs. “Peter is just an acquaintance. We were arguing but he hasn’t ever hurt me. We just set each other off. Fire and rain, ya know?”

“Alright,” Danny says easily enough. “Well. I do care. I know we aren’t really friends, Stiles. But I care about what happens to you.”

“I must look like crap lately if you’re getting all One Tree Hill on me,” Stiles says, trying to joke. Danny smiles a little but it’s stale.

“You’ve been really quiet. When no one is looking,” Danny says. He shifts on his feet. “You don’t have to tell me anything. But I hope you’re okay. If you want to get together and smoke or something, I have some stuff right now.” 

“Wow. Danny, I appreciate that-” Stiles says. He’s a little gobsmacked. He covers that surprise with obnoxiousness. “Are we having a moment?”

“Shut up,” Danny laughs and they head to practice.

***

Stiles is bench warming, tightening the strings of his net and contemplating the mystery of his gross attraction to Peter. 

He’d known Peter was handsome, sure. You’d have to blind to miss that. But the Peter from his time was cold. Emotionless and hard. Perhaps it was coming back from the dead. Maybe his humanity stayed behind when he rose again. And that disconnect from humanity always raised the hair on Stiles’ neck. The ruthlessness in his eyes, like those of a shark, kept him from being attractive. He was beautiful but absolutely fearsome. 

This Peter isn’t sane. Isn’t healthy or normal or okay but he doesn’t automatically raise Stiles’ hackles. And because he’s not on constant edge he can appreciate the finer points of Peter’s anatomy. And if Stiles is being honest with himself, the evil villain thing is a major turn on.

Life has settled into a calm and peaceful lull. Stiles feels like he’s cake walking through life. And Peter, while homicidal, does bring an undeniable spark to life. Stiles has always appreciated efficiency and intelligence and Peter certainly has both. 

His friends are pubescent, sweet and gentle and wonderful. Stiles is happy they get to keep that. But Stiles is bored. And Peter keeps him on his toes. He can’t be blamed for wanting a little excitement. 

Scott collapses on the bench beside him, shedding his helmet, and Stiles passes over the inhaler he keeps in his pocket. He’s never enjoyed lacrosse, even as a youth, but it is especially miserable now. Pedantic and monotonous and so very dull. Jackson gets the ball. Jackson passes the ball to Danny. Jackson knocks someone over. Scott forgets his inhaler and Isaac hovers nearby until Stiles can get the inhaler to Scott. Repeat, ad nauseum. 

“Thanks, Stiles,” Scott pants. He triggers the inhaler and holds his breath before passing the inhaler back to Stiles. 

“You got it, buddy,” Stiles says with a smile. “You’re looking pretty good out there.” 

“I bet the coach will put you in next time,” Scott offers. He bumps Stiles with his shoulder conspiratorially. 

“I hope he doesn’t,” Stiles murmurs and watches Isaac jog across the field towards them. 

***

Peter is waiting for him when practice is over. Scott and Isaac trail after Stiles, laughing about some YouTube video they made Stiles watch on repeat. Shockingly enough, videos that are funny to sophomores aren’t that funny to adult-Stiles. Allison is discussing some new clothing haul her mom brought home from her last show with Lydia and Jackson by the fence. 

Peter is leaned against the hood of the car, handsome and charmingly ruffled by the light breeze. 

“That’s not Derek, is it?” Isaac asks quietly as they approach. 

“Nah. This is the uncle,” Stiles says. Peter smiles behind his Prada sunglasses. 

“Who in the hot dads of Beacon Hills is that?” Lydia asks loudly.

“ _ Hey _ ,” Jackson protests and Peter hides his snort behind one big hand. 

“Stiles,” Peter purrs once Stiles is closer and Stiles can’t help but grin back at him. Scott audibly chokes on his own spit. “I want to apologize for my little snit.”

“Your snit is not an ish,” Stiles says cordially. Life is too short to hold grudges. Well. No, it’s not. But it might be in regards to the Hales. 

“Who are your friends, Stiles?” Peter asks, pushing off the hood. He holds off a hand to Isaac and Scott in turn. 

“Scotty, Isaac. This is Peter. He’s been away traveling for a while,” Stiles says and watches Peter surreptitiously evaluate Isaac. 

“You boys must have worked up an appetite,” Peter says. Stiles rolls his eyes. 

“No schmoozing today,” Stiles protests. He sets a palm on Peter’s shoulder. Peter’s focus lasers in on Stiles’ eyes. “I have to go deal with Roscoe.”

“Ah, dude,” Scott says. “Poor Roscoe.”

“The tow truck picked it up half an hour ago,” Peter says. He places his hand over Stiles’ briefly. Then he runs his fingers through his own hair. Stiles puts his hands in his pockets. “Apparently, all three Hales put in calls to the mechanic.”

“You’re so good to me,” Stiles says. He searches Peter’s face for the lost look he’d had before. It’s missing now, completely covered by Peter’s congenially attractive smile. 

“Hi,” Allison calls, trotting over to lace her fingers with Scott’s. Stiles watches Peter’s expression freeze. 

“And who might you be?” Peter asks. His smile brittles until Stiles thinks it might crack. 

“Allison,” she says, dimpling at Peter and holding out her hand like the sweet girl she is. 

Peter shakes her hand, leaning down like a freak to kiss the back of it. Scott and Isaac’s eyebrows fly up and Stiles bounces on his heels to keep from smacking Peter.

“It’s excellent to meet you, Allison,” Peter says. He releases her hand slowly. Allison’s mouth is open in a little ‘o’ and she holds the kissed hand to her chest. 

“You too,” she chirps in a high-pitched voice. Then, she flees back to Lydia as casually as she can. 

“Oh my God?” Lydia hisses as soon as Ally is in earshot. Peter switches back into normal person mode and smiles brightly at the assorted teens around him. 

“Alright, big guy,” Stiles says before Peter can kiss anyone else. He puts his hands on Peter’s round shoulders and turns him back towards the call. “To the mechanics. Heigh-ho, Silver.”

With Peter folding himself into his impractically little car, Stiles turns back to his friends to do damage control. Scott is frowning pretty severely at Peter and Isaac is hiding sadistic giggles. 

Stiles sighs. 

***

That night, Stiles feels like he’s just closed his eyes when he awakens to a loud crunching sound from outside. Jolting up, he can just make out the blue glints of wolf eyes outside his window. He collects his lacrosse stick from beneath his bed and breathes belief into the mountain ash he’s embedded in it with resin. Approaching the window, he is in turn relieved and concerned to see Peter’s hulking body pacing on his awning. 

Peter is in beta form. Well, what serves as his beta form. His eyes glow in the dark, leaving trails of electric blue as he weaves in circles on the roof outside Stiles’ window. His muscles are impossibly corded and his lack of shirt only highlights the obscene musculature. Coarse hair lines his body and his face is twisted into a brutish, animalistic snarl. His open-mouthed scenting reveals wicked fangs curving up from his jaw. He’s too tall, too big and Stiles heartbeat flutters. 

“Peter?” He asks in a hush, flinching when Peter’s attention snaps towards him. Peter hunkers down closer to the window and smears his palm against the glass. “What’s wrong with you?”

Peter whines, head lolling, and then he pushes his palm against the glass until it cracks. 

“Wait--wait--wait,” Stiles chants, forcing the window up. He leaves Peter growling at the mountain ash barrier, tosses the lacrosse stick to the side, to turn on the bedside lamp. Peter is even more monstrous in better lighting and Stiles looks him over for any bullet wounds or dark veins. Finding none, he sighs and shakes his head, hops a little to psyche himself up. Then, against every instinct, he sticks his hand out the window. 

Immediately, Peter is running his lips over Stiles’ hand and making this deep chuffing sound. Scenting him, claiming him. Stiles allows him to force his hand into a petting position and then Peter is pushing his face against the exposed palm and fingers. He’s kneeling on Stiles’ roof, making tiny growling noises and arching his neck to rub his jaw against Stiles’ fingers. He reminds Stiles of a stray cat he used to pet on the way home from school. Stiles rakes his fingers through Peter’s hair, curious, and Peter stills and looks up at him from under his prominent brow ridge. 

His eyes are still neon blue but they’re also innocent and as threatening as a baby bunny. A baby bunny who could kill you with its’ razor sharp claws and teeth. He looks almost sweet, doting and enthralled in Stiles. 

“What is going on with you, big guy?” Stiles asks. The nickname comes out of his mouth before he can process it. He pushes down the wave of nostalgia for he and Derek’s better moments and refocuses on the task at hand. “Is wolfy-Peter back?”

Peter whines in excitement at Stiles’ voice and the Stiles can’t help the smile that breaks across his face. He laughs quietly, looks around his dark neighborhood searching for answers and finding none. Then he breaks the ash line. 

Peter is through the window at once, nearly trampling Stiles in his elation. He makes a beeline to Stiles’ bed, shirtless and barefoot with jeans riding just high enough to protect any modesty Peter might still have. He makes a jolly mess of Stiles’ bed clothes and his raucous show ends with him sprawled on his stomach with Stiles’ pillow clutched to his face. Stiles approaches slowly, warily, and busts into genuine laughter when he realizes Peter is rubbing his face slowly over the pillow with his eyes closed. 

“Wolf-Peter,” he chides with a smile. He sets a knee on the edge of the bed and wolf-Peter freezes aside from his eyes snapping open. Stiles matches his stillness, wondering what is happening. Then, in a feat of casual super-speed and strength, Peter reaches out to catch Stiles around the waist. He pulls Stiles down, almost beneath him, and transfers his affectionate nuzzling to Stiles’ neck. “Al...right.”

Peter drags his claws over the neck and chest of Stiles’ shirt. It shreds effortlessly, slipping off Stiles’ chest. In Peter’s carelessness, Stiles is left with four razor-thin lines of beading blood on his chest. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, touching the blood. “Be careful, dude.”

Wolf-Peter gives a drawn out whine, snuffling into Stiles’ neck and Stiles forces himself to relax. This animal-brain, amygdala-driven Peter is not something he wants to upset. Stiles landed on his back with an arm around Peter’s shoulders. Peter is laying half on top of him with an arm in the small of Stiles’ back. Peter’s other hand is clamped around the back of Stiles’ neck. 

Stiles runs his fingers through Peter’s soft, expensive-smelling hair and settles in. It’s nice to be close to someone, a traitorous part of him points out. Peter --there is no other word for it--  _ snuggles _ in even closer, lacing their legs together and sighing contentedly. Stiles gets a moment of quiet stillness where he thinks Peter has fallen asleep to consider the situation. 

When did other-timeline-Peter get less crazy? After he died. His wolf had basically run amok in Beacon Hills. Who actually knows how much of biting Scott and killing bus drivers was Peter-Peter and not Wolf-Peter. So maybe, Wolf-Peter is just an...outlet for Peter-Peter? No. Not an outlet. Maybe the wolf distills Peter’s urges. Boils them down to their most basic form and carries out the hard part. 

Other-timeline-Peter was abandoned and in constant agony. He wanted to be Alpha to heal and to build a pack. That follows the distillation theory. And this wolf-Peter isn’t in a constant state of healing/unhealing. So, he just wants a pack. And vengeance. Maybe?

However, in the car, wolf-Peter had simply come online when Peter slipped into what must have been a dissociative episode. So, the wolf is--

“Ah!” Stiles yelps in disgust when wolf-Peter lalved a wet tongue into his ear. “No tongue!”

***

Morning finds Stiles curled against something warm and breathing. He sighs, tilting his face into soft hair. He presses a kiss to the crown of Derek’s head and Derek rumbles back at him. 

The rumble is a few shades too deep and he blinks back into consciousness. Peter. He’s pasted against Peter on his side, one arm under Peter’s neck and the other curved around his ribs and his legs folded up so his shins are held by the tops of Peter’s thighs. Peter is facing him with a beefy bicep drawn around his waist. Stiles sighs into Peter’s hair and then turns his head so his cheek is pressed to the top of Peter’s head. 

“Have I overstayed my welcome?” Peter asks, voice thick with sleep. He stretches, scooting back a little so he can look at Stiles. His hair is rumpled and his eyes are half-mast. 

Stiles considers how cold the bed will be without Peter. How long it’s been since he’s been held and touched. Then he extracts his arm and rolls so Peter is against his back. Peter gets with the program, working his arm under Stiles’ neck and pulling him closer still with a huge hand on Stiles’ belly. He tucks his prickly jaw into the dip of Stiles’ neck and sighs. Their legs tangle and Peter begins to rub a steady rhythm against Stiles’ lower belly with his thumb. 

Stiles rolls his eyes when they start to prickle with tears. 

“What’s the matter?” Peter asks quietly in his sleep-roughened voice. 

“I missed this,” Stiles says quietly. He pulls the blanket up to his chin and Peter pulls him just that little bit closer. “I missed waking up to someone.”

“Not my nephew,” Peter says, hedging. 

“No,” Stiles says, a half-lie. He’s not sure what his heart does. 

Peter is quiet for a moment and then he sinks his teeth viciously into the meat of Stiles’ shoulders. 

“What the fuck,” Stiles gasps, trying to pull away. 

His heart rate leaps into action, his breathing harshens. Peter keeps him held, keeps his teeth set into Stiles’ shoulder. The pain spikes, dulling and sharpening in time with his pulse. Stiles feels so alive. 

Peter’s hand goes from being a warm comfort below his belly button to five blade-like claws pressed to his tender underbelly. Finally, Peter releases his bite and the blood rushing back into the area hurts worse than the bite did. 

“I’m not Derek. I’m not a substitute for him. If you let me in your home, little pig, understand what you’re inviting in,” Peter growls against Stiles’ ear. The hand on Stiles’ belly moves, scratching up Stiles’ stomach until it’s gripping his throat. Stiles is bowed, taught and tense across Peter’s front. 

“I don’t think you are, asshole,” Stiles hisses. He reaches up to pull on Peter’s iron-strength forearm. He wiggles, trying to get loose from Peter’s hold. “I know exactly who you are. I knew who you were when you came scratching on my window and licking my hand, you pathetic dick.”

“Stiles,” Peter says softly. He clicks his tongue twice and then curls his tongue around the shell of Stiles’ ear. He breathes, hot and close, and Stiles ignores the tingles in his stomach. “You were very sweet to me last night. Won’t you be sweet this morning?”

“We were being—you’re such a jerk. It was all fine and good until you went  _ Silence of the Lambs _ on my neck,” Stiles says, still tearing at Peter’s arm. “Let me go, you psycho.”

“‘Quid pro quo, Clarice?’” Peter asks silkily. He lets Stiles go. 

Stiles bounds off the bed, turning to face Peter and scooping up his lacrosse stick in the same movement. He points it at Peter and sucks in a steadying breath. Peter is on his side, head on his hand and abs fully on display. At some point, he’d lost his pants and the sheet does very little to cover anything.

“That shit—,” he says, gesturing to the general bed and Peter area. “—is  _ not  _ on. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Jesus. Here’s a helpful hint, Cujo. If you want people to stay in bed with you, don’t treat them like a rawhide.”

“You like it,” Peter says. He seems bored. He rolls on to his back and the sheet barely follows. “Do we have to do the whole ‘pretend you aren’t interested when really you’re gagging for it’ thing? Can’t we just skip to the part where we both get something we want?”

“What do you have that you think I want?”

“Stiles,” Peter says, lifting his head to raise a condescending eyebrow at Stiles. “I can  _ smell _ you. I know exactly what you want.”

“You really are an immoral bastard,” Stiles says incredulously. Peter Hale, resident evil villain, as a FWB? Stranger things have happened in Beacon Hills, Stiles muses. Peter is probably a real freak in bed. “God, you’re fucked up.”

“Are you  _ trying _ to seduce me?” Peter asks drily. 

“ ‘I wouldn't dream of seducing you, Alexandra. I wouldn't insult your intelligence with anything as trivial as seduction. But, uh, I would love to fuck you’,” Stiles rattles off, half-hoping Peter has cracked his Cher quote habits. 

“Another quote,” Peter says shrewdly, lowering his eyebrows. “I’m on to you.”

“Just because we hook up doesn’t mean I’m not going to hold you to the same standards. Your job is to help the Hale pack heal,” Stiles says. He lowers his lacrosse stick. “You have to take care of your pack. Even if you get a new one.”

“Whatever you want, little pig,” Peter says. He sits up, artfully curving his body into a flattering pose. Stiles’ mouth dries out. “As I said before, you hold my leash.”

“I’m not stupid enough to think I hold the upper hand over you,” Stiles says. He drops the lacrosse stick. He thinks of Peter’s wide hands on his body. He thinks of his sharp teeth and glowing eyes in the dark. 

“Nor I you,” Peter purrs. 

“But I think I can hold my own. I think I can keep up,” Stiles continues. He moves close enough to put a knee on the bed. 

In a mirror of the night before, Peter reaches out and pulls him down onto the bed. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I feel like three things happen in this chapter. Cora will arrive next chapter though!!!

Fear curdles in Stiles’ gut as he sprints through the dark Preserve. He’s been running for ages, his lungs hurt as air rasps into them. His calves are about to give out from under him and there’s a vicious stitch in his side. Branches crack behind him the wake of the rasping, growling Peter. Stiles scurries under a fallen tree that’s supported by another, pausing to listen for Peter, when something slams on top of the log. Stiles grip tightens on his wolfsbane coated lacrosse stick 

Stiles can hear Peter sniffing, turning to-and-fro on the log above him. Stiles’ heart stutters and Peter laughs to himself. 

“I’ve got you, little pig,” he croons. Then, he’s landing neatly before Stiles. His beta form is out, claws extended and teeth bared. His black button up is open to his sternum and Stiles’ eyes drag over the exposed flesh. Even murdererous and loathsome, he is unfairly ripped. 

“Not exactly,” Stiles pants. He lunges, jabbing his stick into Peter’s chest. Peter stumbles back half a foot and Stiles uses the break to escape. His stringent exercise routine has paid off and he’s able to pull himself up onto the fallen tree and make a mad dash in the direction his Jeep is probably in. 

Peter roars and it spurns Stiles on. Through the trees, he can see the dim glow from the single street light that illuminates the parking lot. His Jeep is close. 

Suddenly, Peter smacks into him from the side. Stiles struggles to get his lacrosse stick in front of him but Peter forces him onto his stomach. He grabs Stiles’ wrists with a bruising grip and cracks the arm holding the stick into the ground. Something twinges deep in Stiles’ wrist and he lets out a stuttered cry and releases the stick. 

Peter bats it away, out of range, and leans down to inhale roughly against the patch of skin behind Stiles’ ear. He nuzzles the spot, humming happily. 

“Didn’t your mom ever tell you not to play with your food?” Stiles asks, trying in vain to pull his arms free. 

“I suppose I could move on to the main course,” Peter laughs darkly. His toothy smile is stark in the evening light. 

He sits back, straddling Stiles, and lets him turn over. Once he’s on his back, Stiles reaches up and yanks Peter down to kiss him. Peter doesn’t ever give an inch, in kissing or life, and their teeth grind as they try to find an angle that works. Peter bites Stiles’ lower lip, just on the edge of too hard and Stiles gasps against his will. 

Peter sits back again, smug and darkly handsome. Stiles props himself up on his elbows and tries to catch his breath. Peter’s claws, having been tucked away at some point, flick out again and Peter slits the front of Stiles’ t-shirt from neckline to hem. 

“You suck. This is like the third shirt this week,” Stiles complains but his breath catches in his throat when Peter replaces his claws with human fingers and he draws them over the hollow of Stiles’ throat and up to his Adam’s apple. It’s been less than a week since they hooked up the first time. 

“I’ll buy you a new one,” Peter says. His fingers slide up to gloss over Stiles’ lips. Stiles lets his jaw fall open a little and Peter grins. “How much can they cost? I assume they came in a six-pack from some store that ends with ‘-Mart’.”

Stiles lets Peter dip his fingers into Stiles’ mouth and then he bites, drawing a startled laugh from Peter. 

“Vicious beast,” Peter says, nearly fond. Stiles bites a little harder and Peter leans down to slick his tongue over the place where Stiles’ teeth and his own fingers meet. Stiles opens his mouth again, let’s Peter replace the fingers with his tongue. 

Their kissing is never pretty. Too much teeth and spit. But Stiles feels alive with Peter. And that’s enough. 

“I’m going to take you here,” Peter rasps, shredding the rest of Stiles’ shirt. He presses him down against the soil and Stiles can’t help but writhe on the fallen pines. “In the dirt.”

“Fuck you,” Stiles says, aiming for anger and landing somewhere in petulant. “We’re too close to the parking lot.”

Peter lifts his head from where he was trailing love-bites down Stiles’ neck to peer at the parking lot. It is close. Stiles can see the streetlight from here. Peter turns back with a wicked grin. 

“Peter, no,” Stiles starts and then Peter is lifting off the ground and dragging a shirtless Stiles with him. 

Stiles casts a last glance at his ruined shirt and then Peter is shoving him against a tree a few yards from the parking lot. There are two cars in the lot aside from the Jeep and it’s late enough that any hikers are at least headed back to their cars. 

Peter’s mouth distracts him from his complaints and Stiles somehow ends up with his legs wrapped around Peter’s waist and the bark of the redwood scratching his spine raw. 

“Put me down,” Stiles says in between bruising kisses and Peter rolls his eyes. 

“What for? I like you up here,” Peter says and he shifts Stiles’ purposefully. Stiles sighs into the motion and Peter almost distracts him until he heaves him up a half foot and a broken branch definitely draws blood along his back. 

“Down—down. Put me down,” Stiles says, pushing at Peter’s chest. He twists, trying to peer over his shoulder and Peter pushes up against the tree again. He tries to stick his hand down Stiles’ pants and growls when he’s deferred by the belt. “Peter, seriously, do not—“

Peter snags a claw on the leather belt and slices through it like it’s butter. Then he snicks off the button and tears the zipper like wet paper. Stiles’ head thuds against the tree trunk and he shudders as arousal burns hot in his belly. The careful control, the razor sharp claws. The sheer strength. 

“Just stop complaining,” Peter murmurs. His hand moves over Stiles and his breath is hot against his neck. “Or I’ll put you over the hood of that Buick.”

“You wouldn’t,” Stiles says, thrilled at the concept. Peter licks a long line up the side of his throat and then he bites, hard, over the bruise that’s still healing from their first time.

Peter is a hot, heavy pressure against his back and Stiles’ shaking legs nearly give out when Peter thrusts against him. 

“Are you tired, darling?” Peter asks, malice slicing through his sweet words. 

“Excuse me for having a human body,” Stiles snarks and Peter pulls back. 

Stiles turns, suddenly cold and aware of how dark the night is. 

“You’ll take my bite one day,” Peter says silkily. “I’ll mark it right there.” 

He reaches out and runs his fingers over the bite mark. Then he takes Stiles by his shoulders. He pulls him close, the atmosphere of their night slowing from a frenzy to a syrupy still. He leans down and rubs his nose against the bite mark pulsing with pain on Stiles’ neck. Then he licks over it, tongue soft and hot in the night. Peter crouches, mouth moving down with him and Stiles’ mouth dries out. 

Peter isn’t shy about his interests. He likes sucking Stiles off. He likes making Stiles blush. He likes biting the side of Stiles’ neck from behind. He likes forcing sound out of Stiles no matter where they are. 

Now is no exception. Peter’s mouth is unbearably talented and the way he manhandles Stiles is enough to draw hurt noises from Stiles. Stiles' legs finally give up the ghost and he starts to crumple over Peter. Peter takes the distraction as a chance to pin Stiles under him and really go to town. 

Stiles gets flashes of a wolf over a fallen elk as he stares down at the hulking shoulders of Peter Hale. Peter’s got one elbow braced on the ground, the other arm is stretched up to touch the bite mark. He glances up then, eyes flashing blue, and Stiles chokes on his next moan. Stiles sets up on his own elbows, just enough to see the sooty fan of Peter’s lashes against his skin and the deadly hollows of his cheeks as he rocks Stiles' world. He pulls off Stiles’ dick with an evil, sinful, wet noise and grins up him knowingly. 

“Turn over,” Peter murmurs. Stiles tries not to be too eager as he moves and he exhales in a whoosh as Peter catches him by the hips and yanks his pants down around his ankles. 

“Let me take off my damn—,” Stiles starts and his words die in his mouth as Peter pulls him up so he’s on all fours. Peter’s fingers meet a pre-lubricated hole and then a packet of lube is invited to the party. Stiles is sloppy, dripping and messy, by the time Peter presses himself against Stiles. 

“May I?” Peter asks, velvet steel. A growl builds in his chest. 

“Come on already,” Stiles tosses over his shoulder and then Peter is pressing into him slowly. Stiles presses his forehead to the ground, waiting for the too-much feeling to turn into a more-please one. 

He remembers sex from before. But this body—it’s all so new. This body doesn’t know how to handle all of the new sensations without overloading and whiting-out. 

Peter’s technically an excellent lover but this body can’t move beyond there’s a hand on my dick to add back to the situation. Peter doesn’t seem to mind when Stiles drools against his chest or mindlessly loses himself in grinding against Peter’s thigh. Right now, Peter is fucking with the skill of a god and all Stiles can do is get dirt under his nails from trying to grab the ground and moan. 

“Come on, move,” Peter encourages, pulling Stiles up from his sprawl in the dirt. Stiles puts every brain cell into throwing it back and he remains coherent for a few thrusts before he’s sinking back down onto his face. 

Peter turns him, effortlessly moving him onto his back and then he’s pulling Stiles’ legs together and over to the side so Stiles’ calves are pressed to his shoulder, pulling Stiles up off the ground so he’s still getting fucked but now Peter can see every choked off moan as it happens. Stiles still has his jeans bunches around his ankles and his fucking shoes on and he kicks it all off so he can get a leg on either side of Peter. 

Peter reaches down, pulls Stiles up so he’s kneeling over his lap and pulls his arms behind his back. Stiles’ knees barely touch the ground and he leans his weight back onto Peter’s hands so he can leverage enough to move with Peter. 

“Look at me,” Peter rasps, eyes neon. Stiles can’t help but obey, meeting his burning eyes in the dark. 

There’s nothing but the sound of their breathing in the dark and Stiles cums just as Peter bites his neck again. Peter’s hands move from his wrists to his hips and it’s not more than a handful of thrusts before he’s coming too.

Peter dumps him on the ground, flips him back on to his hands and knees and drives his tongue into Stiles. This is one of the times where Stiles’ stupid brain shuts off. 

Stiles loses track of time under Peter’s tongue and, when he comes back into his body, he’s making the most embarrassing sounds a person could make. He sounds like a hentai girl. He tries to stifle himself against his knuckles and Peter responds by hiking him up more on his knees so his back bows and his tongue can reach deeper. 

“Peter,” he manages to choke out. “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning you up,” Peter rasps. His voice is distorted by a thick, rumbling growl. “Made you dirty.”

“I can’t—Wait. Wait a minute,” Stiles says and Peter does. He leans his scruffy cheek against Stiles’ lower back and then he’s working his fingers into Stiles. “Peter.”

“They’re going to hear you,” Peter says, scissoring his fingers just a little. “Maybe they already did.”

“Who?” Stiles stutters. He peers around but he can’t see anyone. “Where?”

“From the East,” Peter laughs. He’s the devil. “They’re close. Maybe two minutes from being within hearing distance.”

“You won’t,” Stiles says, curling into himself. Peter’s thick fingers are sinful and brutal and Stiles cannot string a complete thought together. 

“Ask me to stop,” Peter says. “I’ll listen.”

“You bastard,” Stiles bites out and Peter laughs quietly. He knows Stiles is getting off on this as much as he is. 

Then, he replaces his fingers with his mouth and Stiles’ loses himself again. 

He’s panting around his own fingers when the Buick in the parking lot unlocks, lights flashing and illuminating the night briefly. Peter adds his hand to the mix, jerking Stiles in efficient movements, and Stiles forces himself to be silent. 

He’s still making these soft, little huffs, unable to quiet himself completely and his heart jitters to a stop when he hears voices coming down the trail. 

“Let them hear you,” Peter cajoles. 

He moves up along Stiles back so he’s laid over him like a shadow, heavy and oppressive. All Stiles can hear is Peter’s rumbling growl and all he can smell is the earth and expensive cologne. He’s enveloped by the experience of Peter, thrown over by the absolute command that he holds in a space. 

With the little slice of the night he can see, Stiles watches the couple move into the parking lot. Peter bites him yet again and Stiles cums for a second time with a strangled cry. The couple turns towards him and Stiles shakes through aftershocks beneath Peter. They peer into the dark and then quickly get into their car, driving off into the night. Beacon Hills does not adventurers make. 

Stiles slumps in the dirt, breathing in the rich soil and waiting for his heart to settle. Peter climbs off him, brushing dirt from his knees and retightening his own belt. Stiles gets dressed as much as he can, he has to hold his pants up with one hand at the waist. The wrist Peter slammed into the ground earlier aches with a probable sprain.

“You really had to ruin my only belt?” Stiles complains, crossing the short distance so his ribboned belt and shirt. “And my pants? Pants are expensive. I paid like thirty dollars for these.”

“One, you loved it. Two, I said I would replace your clothing,” Peter says. 

He sounds perfectly aloof, as if he hadn’t just put Stiles through the ringer. He leans to scoop up Stiles’ lacrosse stick. It visibly burns him, curls of smoke filter up through his fingers, and he turns the stick to and fro. Finally, he tosses it to Stiles who catches it one handed. 

“This was fun. We should add this to our regular roster,” Peter says, observing his singed palm with casual indifference. 

“I can’t explain away bruises like this all the time,” Stiles replies. His torso is covered in finger-shaped bruises and scratches. Not to mention the dirt. “I still have lacrosse practice.”

“It’s summer,” Peter drawls. He sighs. “You could always quit.”

“I’m not going to quit so you can wreck me in the woods more often,” Stiles says. He shifts on his feet. “Alright. Later.”

Peter glances at him dismissively and then melts away into the woods. 

Stiles inhales and lifts his chin, then marches across the parking lot to his Jeep. His pants are slipping down, his wrist aches, he’s sore and exhausted. But he can feel his heart in his chest and the blood rushing through his veins. 

It’s enough. 

***

Stiles sees the life of a lonely, teenaged Stiles through fresh eyes. When he was living it, it had been the norm. Now, it seems impossibly isolated. Scott really has been his only social contact growing up. 

Dad was, at best, absent. Being the single parent and the Sherriff of an entire county at the same time just wasn’t a functional model. Stiles likens his younger self to a bored cattle dog, anxious from lack of purpose and chewing the drywall. 

He finds peace in the solitude now. But he remembers the lonely nights. He remembers texting people who didn’t like him just so he could have some communication. Now, he’s wise enough to be able to cultivate a social life but younger Stiles had been doomed from the start. 

Summer is an endless cycle of days with nothing to fill them. School was boring and Stiles was growing lethargic in his day to day, bored with running mental circles around his school friends. But it was still something to do. Subtly pushing every last one of Harris’ buttons or surreptitiously stealing Jackson’s pencils. Coaxing Erica into making fun of people with him has been a genuine delight as well. 

Scott and Isaac have solidified a friendship and, between that and Allison, Scott is busy most of the time. Stiles understands. He remembers another time when Scott’s absentminded spurning made him monstrously jealous. Now, he’s simply pleased to see his friends happy. Isaac’s father has gotten worse, Stiles thinks, and he’s happy for Scott to be a distraction. 

Allison has taken notice of Stiles' Erica crusade and is always dragging her shopping with Lydia and forcing her to come bowling with them. Boyd never comes to bowling but he will agree to join them for a gaming session here and there. 

Stiles has settled into a pseudo-routine now. He wakes early and jogs before the sun can bake him. He makes his dad dinner or breakfast, depending on what shift John worked. He cleans the house. He works out. He spends most days alone. He spends some days with the Hales or his human friends. 

At night, Peter comes to him. 

It’s a routine that leaves Stiles bored from seven am to five pm, wishing his daylight away so he can feel something under Peter. He catches sleep in small batches, still waking up counting his fingers desperately more often than not. 

***

Cora’s homecoming is pushed back nearly two weeks. There was a flood in her town and the main road was washed out. Her room sits, empty, and all the Hales are on edge. 

Laura has started a garden, the urge born from sheer anxiety. Stiles comes over one day to find her tearing blackberry brambles from the earth with her hands in shredded gardening gloves. She’s mechanical, twisting and pulling and throwing and twisting again. Blood runs freely down her forearms, washing over rusty dried streaks like a watercolor painting. The fresh blood is staining the fuzzy blue pastel sweater she’s got on. 

“Laura?” He asks, moving across the lawn carefully. He’s sure to weigh down his steps so he’s easily audible. “Laura. Are you alright?”

Laura turns to him, blinking out of a fog. He watches her check back into her body and she looks down at her hands in surprise.

“Jeez,” she murmurs, shaking her hands. “I was lost in thought. These gloves didn’t do anything.”

“Well, typically humans don’t grab thorns straight on,” Stiles says. He helps her peel out of the destroyed gloves and she tucks them in her back pocket. “What—uh—what had you so consumed?”

“I was just thinking about—,” she cuts herself off, bites her lip and tucks her hair behind her ear. She’s unbelievably gorgeous, all the Hales are. “I was thinking about dad. He was the gardener. And when he needed the soil tilled he would put a candy at the end of the furrow and all the pups would dig through the track as fast as we could.”

“That’s adorable,” Stiles says. He’s struck by how glad he is to know Laura. How glad he is that this world still gets to holds her. “Super cute. One day you’ll have more fuzzy puppies than you’ll know what to do with.”

“It would be nice,” Laura says, wrapping her arms around her waist. Rusty, dried blood smears on her sweater. “A full house.”

The big, beautiful Hale house sits behind them. It has room for a dozen but there are only two lonely wolves currently. Peter has an apartment in town, tucked away in the business district above a bistro. 

Laura is looking at the house now, lost in memory and somber. Stiles can imagine how full the Hale house was and how empty it must seem now. He clears his throat and she blinks and then meets his eyes. Something moves in his chest and he’s speaking before he realizes it. 

“The Hale territory is going to be a zoo, Laura,” he says. She inhales softly and he knows she’s waiting for his next words. He understands how important they are. “Pack has gotta be more than just—It’s going to be more than just wolves. The Hale pack is going to stay strong and powerful by being a sanctuary. I know there’s going to be more wolves and coyotes and—Well, do you know what a kitsune is?”

“A kitsune?” Laura asks, flattening a hand over her chest. “A fox spirit?”

“Kinda? She’s going to be awesome,” he says and Laura smiles incredulously. “And you’ll be their Alpha.”

“An Alpha to a kitsune. Did you say coyote?” She laughs and he nods with his hands on his hips. “When?”

“Years still,” he says and her face falls a little. “You need the time to heal. You and Derek. To be ready to let a whole stampede of people back into your pack.”

“You never pull your punches,” Laura laughs. Her eyes are a little watery and she pulls Stiles in for a thorough scenting. “Thank you.”

“Go wash your hands,” he says, wiggling out of her grasp. “You’re literally bathed in blood. Then you can smell me. And we can go buy a damn chainsaw.”

***

A few days after their romp in the woods, Peter shows up after practice in his dumb little car. He rolls down the passenger window and lowers his sunglasses just enough that he can look Stiles up and down and smile like an absolute lech. 

Stiles hates that he can feel his own face cracking into a smile. 

“I’ll catch you guys later,” he says, turning back to Scott and Isaac. They wave him off and he catches Danny’s eye for just a moment. Danny looks concerned, just a tiny tightness around his eyes. Stiles doesn’t want to deal with that so he just jogs across the parking lot to Peter’s car. 

“You smell excellent,” Peter says in greeting. He pauses long enough before driving off that Stiles is afraid he’s going to try and kiss him. But he doesn’t. 

“Where are we going?” Stiles asks, buckling up in a hurry as Peter careens across three lanes. His heart has started to beat faster around Peter.

“I promised to replace your things,” Peter says. “I’m making good on that.”

“Where are we going?” Stiles asks again. They’re on the road that heads out of town, not the one towards the main area of Beacon Hills. 

“There’s a boutique in Beacon Heights,” Peter says, merging recklessly onto the freeway. The car behind them honks and Peter responds by slipping his way through traffic until he’s ahead of the majority of cars. “They carry items I think you’ll enjoy wearing.”

Stiles is a little interested in finding out whatever Peter’s got planned. There’s no chance he’s just getting new t-shirts today. Beacon Heights isn’t far but it’s far enough that Stiles nods off in the car. He wakes up to Peter snapping his fingers five inches from his nose. 

Stiles’ startle response has only worsened with the Nogitsune’s aftereffects and he flails back into awareness, reaching out with desperate hands to chase away the demon. 

When he comes back into his body, Peter is watching him with a calculating lift to one eyebrow and his mouth open just enough to fully scent Stiles.

“Who tortured you?” Peter asks with naked interest, hitting a bullseye on the first try. 

“Nobody you’d know,” Stiles scoffs, trying to force his body to stop fear-sweating. He sits up in the slick, leather bucket seats of Peter’s sports car and wills his nausea away. Looking around, he finds them in an incredibly posh part of Beacon Heights. He’s still wearing his jersey and shorts and he nails Peter with an unimpressed look. “You couldn’t have told me to change?”

“You can change,” Peter says with a wicked grin. He reaches over and pokes a claw through the neckline of Stiles’ jersey. 

“Enough. Let’s get this over with,” Stiles snaps, batting Peter’s hand away and maneuvering out of the car. He gets a few funny looks walking down the street but any insecurity is washed away by the heat of Peter’s hand slipping under the back of his jersey. 

The boutique’s huge windows are covered in an expensive-looking red fabric and the name brushed in gold paint on the door reads simply Land of Lovely. They enter the boutique with Peter leaning down to run his nose over the shell of Stiles’ ear and Stiles leaning away from him with a joyous flail. While the front of the shop is blocked off completely from the light, the roof is dotted with a dozen sunlights, bathing the entire shop in clean, natural lighting. 

There are swathes of fabrics on the western and northern walls, organized by color families and then into fabric types. A line of bespoke fabric mannequins draws the eye towards a tasteful display of hankies and matching ties and there are a few sale tables and racks tucked into the space between the northern wall and the counter. 

“Mister Hale,” a faintly European voice greets them. Stiles raises his eyes to take in the shop clerk. He’s nearly as handsome as Peter and roughly the same age, if not a little older. “I didn’t think this shop would see you again, to be frank.” 

“I will tell you, I knocked on death’s door. But she turned me away, old friend,” Peter replies and he crosses the wooden floor to shake hands vigorously with the clerk. “I think it’s due to the fact that I wasn’t wearing one of your magnificent suits, Aleksy.”

“Flattery is a despicable habit, Mister Hale,” Aleksy responds dourly and Peter touches his own forehead in apology. “What have you brought to my shop? The last muffin?”

“My friend. His moniker is abhorrent but you’ll forgive him,” Peter says and gestures for Stiles to leave the doorstep and meet Aleksy properly. “He calls himself Stiles.”

“Stiles,” Aleksy repeats with a perfectly neutral tone. “I see.”

“No one else can pronounce Mieczysław,” Stiles says, reaching out to shake his hand firmly. “I’m sure you have sympathy for my plight.”

“Ah,” Aleksy says, and a smile nearly forms in the corner of his mouth. “A pleasure to meet you, Mieczysław.”

“You didn’t even let me try,” Peter says, nearly pouting. “How rude.”

“Enough theatrics,” Aleksy says sternly and he crosses his arms neatly. “Your lovely name does not excuse the man-made fibers you’ve dragged through my door.”

“I don’t know that cotton would work for sports,” Stiles says, itching the back of his head. “Not much, uh. Wicking action.”

“Too true, Mieczysław,” Aleksy responds and he reaches out carefully to take Stiles’ hand.

He lifts it, pushes up the Nike compression sleeve and turns Stiles’ arm back and forth. There’s a vicious plum-black ring around his wrist from Peter’s ministrations and purple and yellow bruises blooming up his forearm. Stiles watches Aleksy’s face carefully. His expression doesn’t so much as flicker and he runs a manicured thumb up Stiles’ most prominent vein.

“Milk,” he murmurs to himself and then he’s grasping Stiles’ chin and tilting his face up towards the light. “And honey.”

“What—what are you up to?” Stiles asks, wanting nothing more than to tear his head away. 

“He’s finding your palette,” Peter says softly. He moves to place his hands on Stiles’ shoulders. Stiles is uniquely aware of how pinned he is between these two men. “Milk and honey. How sweet.”

“I won’t bother asking if you’ve tasted,” Aleksy says, turning Stiles’ head to the side and drawing a finger up the cord of his neck. “I can see that you have.”

“I didn’t think judgement was on your list of services,” Peter says lightly and Stiles inhales nervously when Aleksy jerks his head up. 

There’s a strange light in Aleksy’s eyes that rings a little bell in Stiles’ nervous system. Monster, it whispers. He wonders if Aleksy’s teeth have been this sharp the entire time. 

“Ripe, fresh cherries,” Aleksy says, carefully enunciating each syllable. Peter growls, low in his chest. 

“Alright,” Stiles says loudly and wiggles out from between them. “So I’m a frozen yogurt. Is one of you about to pull out a spoon? How about a waffle cone?”

The tension snaps, evaporating like it had never existed and Aleksy disappears into a wooden door behind the counter. Stiles turns towards Peter who is investigating the many racks of clothing around them with an air of nonchalance.

“Let’s move beyond you treating me like a piece of ribeye. Why did you bring me here? Does this place even sell t-shirts?” Stiles asks. A headache is settling into the hollows of his temples. “What exactly are we doing?”

“Aleksy sells many things,” Peter says. He crosses the presses his lips to Stiles’ forehead and the headache eases. Peter steps back and folds his arms behind his back. “The reason I brought you here is two-pronged. Aleksy is a valuable ally to the Hale Pack. It’s smart to foster a relationship with him whenever possible. He also makes marvelous garments that I want to see you in.”

“You want to dress me in...garments?” Stiles asks incredulously. 

“I think you will either look good enough to fuck on the counter or you’ll look like a pig on its hind legs,” Peter says. He smiles and his face becomes brutally more handsome. “I am excited to see, either way.” 

“There will be no fucking on my counters,” Aleksy says sternly, exciting his backroom. “No matter how edible your tart will look.”

“Tart,” Stiles mouths to himself. He chances a look into one of the many mirrors around the shop. He’s still lanky and pale and dopey. He looks slightly more ludicrous than normal in his lacrosse gear. He isn’t sure what says tart about him. 

“Tart,” Peter says out loud, laughter coloring his voice. “Lovely. And speaking of, what will you put him in?”

“Originally, dark to match you. But then, I thought that perhaps he would look nice in more friendly tones. The light to a shadow,” Aleksy says and he sets a bundle of cloth on the counter. Then, he crosses to the front door and flips the sign to ‘Closed’. He locks the door and returns a brass key to his breast pocket. Stiles watches him carefully as he returns. 

“Tart?” He asks, unable to stop himself. 

“Milky skin, ripe mouth. The gold in your eyes. Warm and inviting and still bitter. A tart,” Aleksy says simply. “I mean no disrespect.”

“None taken,” Peter answers for him. Stiles inhales and counts to five. Beneath his irritation, a thread of delight runs. The push and pull of his irritation with Peter is becoming a security blanket. 

Aleksy pulls a stool from behind the counter for Peter. Then, he pushes a fitting pedestal in front of the mirror and drapes a white drop cloth over the pedestal. Finally, he begins lining a rack with the garments he’s pulled from the back. 

“Please, remove the polyester,” Aleksy says with a quick gesture. 

“How much of the polyester?” Stiles asks, pulling his jersey over his head. He folds it and drops it on Peter’s lap. Peter lets it slide to the floor. 

“All of it, I’d assume,” Peter says with a wolfy grin. 

“I smell disgusting,” Stiles says, nose wrinkled and arms raised. He pulls his compression shirt the rest of the way off and drops it on the floor with his jersey. He sheds his shorts and shoes next but keeps on his boxer-briefs. 

“The human bouquet is one that appeals to my people,” Aleksy says, like a vampire would say. “Especially when it’s full of such concentrated adrenaline.”

Stiles turns a skeptical eye on him. Then to Peter. Peter has the gall to smile. 

“Right,” Stiles says. He crosses an arm over his chest and tries to look casual. “Well.”

“Up on the alteration platform,” Aleksy says, holding out a hand for Stiles to climb up with. The platform feels like incredibly solid wood and Stiles adds that to the monster-Aleksy theory. 

“So, do you have a last name, mysterious shopkeep?” Stiles asks while Aleksy pulls a simple white jersey-fabric undershirt onto him. It’s deliciously soft against his skin and he takes a moment to surreptitiously shimmy inside it. 

“Ah, yes. I am Northman,” Aleksy says. He slides a professional hand down the line of Stiles’ back. “Much better than your acrylic, yes?”

“If I could marry a shirt,” Stiles says, running his hands over his ribs. “I would have already gotten on one knee. Does she have a dowry? No price is too high. Hey, speaking of. How much is this?”

“You've got the etiquette equivalency of a bull loose in a china shop,” Peter says, smiling around his fingers. He’s slouched artfully on the stool. Stiles hates how good he looks. 

“Ballpark? Is it I-don’t-want-to-know expensive or get-the-guillotine expensive?” Stiles asks, shrugging into a black jacket. It’s casual enough that he could wear it to school. He turns to the side. His bare legs stick out from beneath it like parsnips. 

“‘Really offensive’,” Peter says in response to the price question. When Stiles looks at him, there’s a blue flint reflecting from his eyes. 

“Is that Pretty Woman?” Stiles asks incredulously. He laughs, really laughs, tossing his head back. He's Julia Roberts to Peter’s Richard Gere. What a world. He’s still smiling when Aleksy fits him into a pair of starched jeans. 

“No,” Aleksy says immediately. He strips them effortlessly down Stiles’ legs and then Stiles is being helped into a pair of red pants. 

A carousel of clothing passes over Stiles’ skin and by the end of it there’s a pile of things he and Peter liked and a pile of things Aleksy hated. Aleksy packages the approved clothing into wax paper and simple brown paper bags and then he adds a green velvet jewelry box.

Peter passes over a literal black card and Stiles turns to Peter while Aleksy is running the card. He adopts his most pleasant expression and leans on the counter towards Peter. Peter turns to look at him. Stiles is dressed in the white jersey shirt and black jacket and Aleksy has added dark jeans to the ensemble. He tried to get Stiles into oxfords but there had to be a line drawn somewhere. 

Stiles lifts his chin and says in an embarrassingly sincere voice, “In case I forget to tell you later, I had a really good time tonight.’”

Peter’s smile catches in the corner of his mouth, a crooked little thing, and he reaches out to grab the back of Stiles’ neck and leans in to scent Stiles’ jaw. Laura and Derek do this often to Stiles but this is one of the few times Peter ever has. 

When Peter pulls back, Stiles has a stupid smile on his face and he bounces away to expend some of his jittery energy. 

***

Peter leaves his hand on Stiles’ leg as they drive back to Beacon Hills. It’s warm and his thumb feels nice rubbing along the ridge of his knee.

***

The Sheriff isn’t home so Stiles invites Peter up. 

“Are you going to give me a show?” Peter asks, eyes greedily moving over the family photos lining the staircase. 

“You just got, like, a two hour show,” Stiles says. He opens his bedroom and sets the bag inside the door. “My arms hurt.”

“Poor little piggy,” Peter croons, crowding Stiles up against the wall. “An afternoon of trying on luxury clothing is too much effort, I suppose. Maybe next time I’ll pay for Aleksy’s shop boys to lift your arms for you.” 

“Wait, were there other people there? In the shop?”

“Define people,” Peter says, hands slipping down to squeeze Stiles’ ass. 

“I don’t know how to respond to that right now,” Stiles says. “We are going to come back to that.”

Stiles lets Peter hoist him up so he’s only supported by hands under his ass and he tilts his chin back. Peter doesn’t disappoint, running the tip of his nose up Stiles’ jugular and then his teeth. 

“I’ll have to be careful now,” he murmurs against Stiles’ jaw. “This shirt is just too expensive to rip.”

“Don’t be boring,” Stiles laughs, trying to get leverage from the wall to grind against Peter. 

Peter keeps his hands gentle, peppers kisses up Stiles’ throat until their mouths meet. Stiles twists his head, trying to deepen the kiss and Peter pulls away. 

“Stop trying to overpower me for ten minutes,” he says. Then he sighs like someone is taking too long in front of him in a grocery line. “Just settle down.”

“There’s no off button,” Stiles scoffs. “I don’t settle down.”

“I bet I can find the button,” Peter says with a slow, dirty smile. He sets Stiles back on his feet and peels him out of the black jacket and white shirt. 

Stiles kicks his own shoes off and backs towards his bed, pushing his jeans down his hips. Peter follows, completely buttoned up, but with burning blue eyes. 

There’s a blur of skin and slick fingers and then Peter’s rocking into him. Stiles is stretched out, Peter’s holding his wrists above his head and he’s got his knees up around Peter’s ribs, back arched. 

Peter finally fills him, presses flush to the hilt, and Stiles prepares for the usual rough, dizzying fuck. 

“Tell me where,” Peter says in an exhale. His face is unbearably smug. And so very beautiful. He moves his hips with geometric precision. He drags the head of his cock over Stiles’ prostate and—

“There,” Stiles chokes, tries to catch his mouth. Peter kisses him for a moment and then turns his head. 

“Mm, here?” Peter asks, rolling his hips in tiny motions. Stiles crumples against the intense sensations rolling through his body. Peter grins when Stiles’ head falls back against the bed. He sucks a bruise into the tender skin over Stiles’ collarbone. 

“God. Peter,” Stiles pants. He strains against Peter’s hands, tries to escape the dazzling pleasure building in his body. It’s too good. It’s too powerful. “Move, you jackass.”

“I am moving,” Peter murmurs, smiling into the side of Stiles’ face. He shifts his hold so he’s got both of Stiles’ wrists in one of his and trails the other down so he can thumb over Stiles’ nipple. “I’m moving quite a bit.”

“No,” Stiles groans, rolling his hips to try and get more friction. Peter is just grinding inside, just barely fucking him. “Move.”

“Say ‘please’,” Peter says. He laughs and flicks Stiles’ nipple. “Actually, say ‘pretty please’.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Stiles says. He hooks a foot in the small of Peter’s back and tries to force Peter deeper in him. Werewolf muscle trumps the human kind and Peter just laughs into his neck, reaches down and holds Stiles’ leg up so he’s that more open. 

“You have to ask me sweetly,” Peter says. He licks the sweat collecting on Stiles’ temple and hums in appreciation. “Ask me like a good little pet.”

“You’re an unimaginably huge ass,” Stiles spits. 

Peter huffs into the dip where Stiles’ neck meets his shoulder and he kisses the skin there. Stiles shivers, frustration welling up in his throat. He hates that he’s still getting there. He hates that Peter is able to control him this easily. 

“Come on…baby,” Peter breathes and Stiles can’t help the hurt noise that leaves his mouth. 

It’s not fair. It’s not fair how good that word sounds coming out of Peter’s mouth. 

“I’ll lead by example,” Peter murmurs, kissing Stiles’ throat. “I’ll be sweet first. I don’t have any shame left.”

“That’s obvious,” Stiles bites out, shuddering into a moan as Peter keeps up his torturous motions. White sparkles on the edges of Stiles’ vision. He’s been on the verge of cumming since Peter nailed his prostate. 

“Please, baby,” Peter says. He whines. “Please, I want to fuck you right. You just have to ask me. Please, just let me hear it.”

“Fuck off, Peter,” Stiles gasps. He can feel every muscle in his body. He’s on the edge, teetering back and forth. 

“I just want you to feel good,” Peter continues his act. He folds his eyebrows pitifully, emulating a real person. “Let me make you feel good, baby.”

“I’m not—,” Stiles breaks into a suspended moan, sighs and shivers under Peter. “God. I’m not going to beg you.”

Then, Peter releases the hold on Stiles’ wrists. He collects Stiles closer, folding an arm under his back and his neck. He doesn’t change his thrusts, they’re still shallow and slow. But the embrace takes this from a battle of wills to something that feels too close to earnest. 

“I adore you, Stiles,” Peter murmurs, nuzzling his face against Stiles. Stiles’ brain whites out. “I just want to make you feel good.” 

Their eyes meet, Peter still feigning a love-sick expression, and Stiles stutters into the least-wanted orgasm of his entire life. 

“What the fuck,” he groans, curling into Peter. Tears sting the edges of his eyes and once he’s stopped shuddering in Peter’s arms he winds his elbow back and hits Peter as hard as he can in the cheek. 

Peter’s head turns to soften the blow and if Stiles is honest, Peter looks as surprised as Stiles’ feels. 

“What’s your problem?” Stiles snaps, shoving Peter and roiling in his arms until Peter pushes up off the bed. 

“Obviously, I had no idea what sweet nothings did to you. If all I have to do is pretend to care about you to get you off, our lives just got a lot easier,” Peter says, back to Stiles. His shoulders are mountainous, the careful bow of his spine as violent as the red hourglass on a black widow. 

“Well, you can forget ever getting me off again,” Stiles says. He wants to throw something at Peter. “You miserable piece of shit. That’s not what we do this for. You don’t get to—to do that to people.”

“You aren’t ‘people’. Not to me,” Peter says. His voice is pleasant and light but Stiles can see the claws protruding from his fingertips. 

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“I see you too, Stiles. You said you see me? But I see you back. You aren’t like everyone else,” Peter says. He turns then. Aside from his claws, he’s completely human. He moves closer and Stiles wills himself to move. To ignore his curiosity and fascination with Peter. “You want me to hurt you? I’m not going to do it with my hands.”

Then, in the stiff quiet of the bedroom, Peter pulls Stiles in carefully. He presses a delicate, longing kiss to Stiles’ mouth. Rubs a thumb over his lower lip. 

Then he leaves. 

Stiles is stuck, trapped in his body and trapped beneath the crushing weight of Peter’s actions. He’s right. Stiles’ hates the idea of Peter touching him in any way close to tender. The ragged edge that cuts any gentle touch is folded around a secret part of Stiles that wishes dearly to just understood and accepted. 

Peter clued in on that. Of course. Peter knows, to an extent, how desperately Stiles wants Derek’s affection. He has no way of knowing Stiles is wishing for another tineline’s Derek. Neither Derek loves him like that. Nobody has loved him like that. 

And, because Peter is terrifyingly intelligent, he saw Stiles’ clearly enough to know that the thing he wants most and the thing he hates the most is the idea of being loved by someone. 

***

It’s a while before Stiles drags himself out of bed. His dad came home at some point but took the closed door as a hint. 

The clothing bag is still on the floor by his door. 

Stiles’ pride lands somewhere between ‘burn it all’ and ‘never touch it again’. He sits up, pulls his jeans back on. He doesn’t bother buttoning them. Making his way to the bag, Stiles scrubs a hand over his face. He’s not even mad. He’s just blah. He’s disappointed in himself. He knew Peter was evil. He forgot that, somehow. 

He’s forgotten until he’s looking at it but there’s a green jewelry box resting on top of the packaged clothing. He remembers Aleksy placing it in there and he assumed it was something for Peter. But Peter wouldn’t have left it. 

He pulls it out. Opens it. It’s a pendant on a necklace. A Celtic knot with four main points inlaid in silver on a round black stone. Stiles touches a fingertip to it and nearly drops the box. The jolt of magic that zipped up his arm settles behind his sternum in a jarring bundle. The buzzing feeling fades almost immediately. 

“What the fuck,” Stiles hisses, rubbing his chest. He touches the stone again and huffs an irritated breath when nothing happens again. 

Stiles storms across the room and throws open his window, leaning out it and sucking in a huge breath. 

“I can’t believe you cursed me,” he screams into the night. He can feel the veins in his forehead bulge. “You are the biggest asshole in the universe!”

Then, he crosses to his bed and screams wordlessly into his pillow. 

His phone buzzes. 

Peter:

It’s not a curse. It’s a warning system. If you wear it and something happens to your soft, weak human body your pack will know. 

Stiles:

I don’t have a pack moron

Peter:

You’re smarter than that, Stiles. You have a pack. 

Stiles:

It’s not something you just have. I haven’t been invited. You KNOW that

Peter:

She’s uneducated. She didn’t have time to learn the rites. If you ask, she’ll tell you. You’re pack. 

“Hey, buddy,” his dad says through the door, jarring him from his thoughts. “I’m coming in. I draw the personal space line at screaming at God.”

“Oh god,” Stiles hisses. He pulls on the nearest hoodie, covering any scratches or bruises that would push his father into bloodthirst. He just barely sprawls on the bed, aiming for casual when his dad steps through the doorway. He waves. “Hi ya, pops.”

“Hi,” he dad says. He has his Serious Discussion face on. Stiles internally sighs. “So.”

“So,” Stiles says, sitting up. He sticks his hands in his pockets. 

“You seem a little on edge lately, son,” John says. He sits in Stiles’ computer chair. “A little quiet. Too quiet. Aside from hollering about curses.”

“Well. This semester is a little rough so far,” Stiles lies carefully. He’s already planned for this. His dad is too smart to be completely fooled. 

“Is that so?” The Sheriff asks and Stiles freezes. 

“Mhmm,” Stiles says. “Yep.”

“Because I reached out to a few of your teachers, kid,” the Sheriff says. He crosses his arms. “They all had really interesting things to say about you. The phrases ‘unrecognizable’ and ‘model student’ were used.”

“What?” Stiles asks, thrown. He hadn’t anticipated being narced on for behaving too well. “That’s not true. There’s no way Harris would say that.”

“No, there isn’t. And no, he didn’t. He had things to say that I anticipated to hear,” his dad asks. The Earnest Eyebrows have come out. “So, what’s the deal kid?” 

His dad thinks he has solved the mystery. Stiles needs to figure out what he thinks is going on so he can confirm or deny safely. Lying for years has taught him not to offer information. He stays quiet. 

“I know you’ve been hanging out with the Hales,” his dad continues. “They must be pretty great. I was pretty sure it was going to be the Scott&Stiles show for life.” 

“Well. Milkshakes melt. And people change,” Stiles says. He scratches the sock of his neck. “Scott has a pretty full dance card right now. I think he’s okay.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Scott is an honorary Stilinski. You don’t get to eat that much of my food and not be family,” his dad says. The concerned crease has not vacated his face yet. “But I’m not worried about the -&Scott part. I’m worried about the Stiles part. Did the Hales come before or after Scott’s new friends?”

“Oh,” Stiles says, blinking. It hadn’t occurred to him that his dad would even notice any of this. “Before.”

“Right. So you’re tangled up in the whole, dramatic attractive Hales. You and Scott have new friends. Your teachers, frankly, love you this semester. But, kid, you look so sad all the time,” his dad says. Stiles notes the tear in the corner of his eye with building panic. “You gotta tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it.”

“Nothing is wrong, dad,” Stiles says. Nothing his dad can fix. 

“I was worried at first that you were over-medicating. Or supplementing with some other kind of—Well. I know you aren’t. And you don’t sound too broke up over the Scott thing. So, that just leaves the Hales,” his dad says and Stiles realizes his father just outfoxed him. 

“The Hales,” Stiles repeats. “What?”

“At least tell me it’s not the old guy,” his dad says, wiping the corner of his eye. “I can handle a new Lydia-type obsession but not if it’s the old guy.”

“Peter isn’t old? But also it’s definitely not him,” Stiles says. He decides to tell the truth. “If it’s anyone—“

“Derek,” his dad says, nodding to himself. “I knew it. You know, I looked him up. He’s got the better half of a civil engineering degree. He’s twenty three, which is an issue.”

“Dad, please—,” Stiles interjects but dad carries on.

“I guess out of any of ‘em, Derek is the safest bet. Laura’s been picked up a few times for illegal cage fighting in New York, if you can believe it. Derek’s squeaky clean,” his dad finishes. He crosses his arms and fixes Stiles with a look. “How concerned do I need to be about this Derek thing?”

Stiles can’t help the cynical laugh that escapes him. “Not at all, dad.”

“Alright,” his dad says and he stands. “I have to say, at least you’re applying yourself to impress Derek. I’ll have to buy the guy a steak some time.”

“Please can this be over now,” Stiles groans and his dad lifts his hands in surrender. 

“I’m outta here. I’m gonna make some spaghetti,” his dad says as he’s closing the door. “Be down in thirty.”

“I love you,” Stiles says, unable to stop himself. 

“Love you too, kid,” his dad calls up the stairs. 

Stiles exhales softly. 

***

Peter-wolf comes scratching on the window that night. 

The mean, cold vindictive part of Stiles wants to leave him out there. 

But it’s not Peter-wolf’s fault that his human half doesn’t understand common decency. 

So, Stiles climbs out of bed and opens the window. The mountain ash breaks at the wave of his hand and Peter-wolf creeps into his bed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Canon-level violence, panic-attack, Chris Argent threatens the Hale house.

Stiles’ anger festers, turning into something sickly and sad. In his bitterness, he avoids all the Hales. He sets mountain ash around his entire property and ignores Peter-wolf. He doesn’t wear the magic necklace. He forces Scott to hang out with him and if Scott is busy he third-wheels or imposes on Boyd. 

He doesn’t want to hang with Erica one-on-one because she’s still fostering a crush on Stiles, and he isn’t in a place to be delicate enough with his refusal. His Hale avoidance measures work for about a week. 

Tonight, all of his Plan B hangouts are busy. He idly considers heading to the precinct and bugging his dad. But then he remembers the oceans of blood the precinct saw at his hands and decides he can’t stomach that either. 

He drifts through Beacon Hills, going nowhere fast. At some point he realizes he’s only a few blocks from The Jungle and his aimless wandering becomes focused. He makes it all the way to the parking lot before he checks back into his body. He’s not dressed to pull. He looks like a GameStop ad. But he’s sure that he looks good enough for someone. 

He realized around twenty that once you stopped desperately wishing someone would pay attention to you, you became a lot more approachable. This led to an exponential leap in his hook ups and a lot less sighing from Lydia when they went out dancing. He sheds his button-up and loses his belt before he enters the club. The bouncer barely glances at his ID card, his eyes spend more time investigating the skinny strip of skin between Stiles’ underwear band and the hem of his t-shirt. 

The drag queens are here. It is a Friday night. He contemplates befriending them again and decides to hold off. He’ll be here again. 

First, Stiles loses himself in the music. It’s loud enough for the bass to rattle his sternum and he finds peace in the complete absence of silence. He can’t be certain his heart is beating and he thinks that, maybe, it’s beating in time with the music. He loses track of time and it’s only when his calves start to burn that he heads for the bar. 

He’s not at the bar long enough to order when a bright pink drink is set before him on a napkin. The napkin has a smiley face on it. He arranges his expression into one of polite happiness and looks in the direction the bartender pointed. 

The man who sent the drink is handsome enough. He’s in his forties. His suit is off the rack and dated by almost ten years but his tie is fun. There’s a map printed on it, Stiles thinks. Stiles smiles at him. The man grins back and there’s something about the carefully dopey smile that raises Stiles’ hackles. He toasts the man wordlessly and turns away. He doesn’t want to get into the middle of some supernatural plot if he doesn’t have to. 

“You’re cute,” someone says loudly in his ear. Stiles remembers, then, why he hates loud places. Too easy to get snuck up on. He turns, swiveling the stool, and meets the eyes of someone much too hot to be approaching Stiles. 

“I’m Nick,” the man says, twinkling beautiful blue eyes at Stiles. He’s got dark hair, nearly black, and the neon club lights splash across the artfully carved planes of his face. 

“Hi, Nick,” Stiles says. He guesses vampire. “What’s up?”

“I saw you come in. Do you want to dance?” Nick asks. He crowds closer to Stiles and Stiles turns his head, revealing his carotid with purpose. Nick’s eyes dip towards it and Stiles suppresses a laugh. 

It’s like he isn’t even trying to hide what he is. 

“I would like to dance,” Stiles says, internally shrugging. He’s in the plot now. 

He drains the rest of his glass and sets it back on the counter. The first man with the tie is making a smug face at Nick from across the bar. They’re working together. There isn’t anything he can kill them with in the club but if Stiles can get one of them to his Jeep he can probably make something happen. Stiles leads Nick to the dance floor without looking back to see if he’s following.

Stiles is kind of kicking himself. He’s a young guy at a nightclub by himself. He’s basically asking to get taken advantage of. The sheepish feeling is instantly replaced by anger when he thinks about how vulnerable, young guys come to this club all the time. Danny comes to this club, Stiles realizes with a simmering rage. 

He turns abruptly, surprising Nick, and yanks the other man in by his belt loops. 

“Easy, tiger,” Nick laughs, floating his hands gracefully to Stile’s sides. He skates his fingers down Stiles’ ribs in a way that is supposed to feel sexy but just raises Stiles’ neck hairs. “We got all night.”

“I’ve got a curfew,” Stiles says curtly, rolling his body against Nick’s in a purposeful motion. He wants to get this over with. 

“Maybe not all night,” Nick amends with a smirk. 

“Nope,” Stiles says and Nick finally buys a clue and starts dancing with him. 

Stiles holds his rage in check for six songs, two more drinks and the walk to his Jeep. He keeps it together as Nick is making out with him against the back bumper of his Jeep. He even keeps it together when Nick’s map-tie, vampire friend shows up out of the dark. 

“Do you mind if my friend parties with us?” Nick asks and it takes every ounce of Stiles’ patience to smile and nod and not spit in his face. 

“Sure, man,” Stiles says, adding a vapid lift to his voice. “I have some party favors if you hang on a sec.”

His machete is tucked under the passenger seat and his lacrosse stick is in the back seat. He’s still deciding which would be better for dual-combat when something big and wet splats on the concrete. He grabs the machete, whirling around and dropping to a lower stance. 

Nick’s head, removed from his body, is propped on the ground gnawing at nothing. His body is splayed haphazardly beside his head and Peter’s got his claws in the belly of map-tie.

“Are you holding a machete?” Peter asks with delight, ignoring the choking noises coming from map-tie.

“That depends,” Stiles says, cocking one hip. He’s mad enough to spit. “Did you seriously just take my kill?”

Peter rends map-tie in two with a careful swipe and turns to roll his eyes at Stiles. “I was helping.”

Map-tie makes a soft noise as his upper half slides to smack heavily into the ground. 

“No. You’re stalking,” Stiles snaps. He stalks over and takes map-tie’s head off like he’s hitting a golf ball. He frowns at Peter. “I want space.”

“I’m not going to allow your little death wish to extend to anyone beyond myself,” Peter says. He’s quiet for a moment, bloody from fingertips to elbows. “You’re wearing the clothes.”

“They’re nice clothes,” Stiles concedes, crossing his arms. He uncrosses his arms, wipes the machete off on Nick’s shirt, and recrosses his arms. “How’d you find me?”

“I would need to lose you in order to find you,” Peter says. A smile curls through his words. “Do you have anything I can clean my hands with?”

“Oh, you don’t carry little wolfy wet wipes?” Stiles says sharply, opening the back hatch. He tosses the machete on to his lacrosse bag. He has a big jug of water in the back and he pours it over Peter’s blood-drenched hands and claws. 

“What did you intend to do with the bodies?” Peter asks. He sounds like a kid meeting Santa. Stiles gives him a dirty sweatshirt to wipe his hands on. 

“Nothing,” Stiles shrugs. “There was a mountain lion report a few weeks ago. I’m going to ride off that.” 

“Is that what you do with all your hunts?”

“This wasn’t even a hunt. This was just—I needed to get laid,” Stiles says, meeting Peter’s eyes with a mean little thrill. 

“You can ‘get laid’ with much less effort than this,” Peter says. He examines his nails for gristle and then crosses his arms. “If you weren’t being so stubborn.”

“I’m not being stubborn,” Stiles says, slamming his back hatch. “You broke the rules.”

“There are no rules,” Peter says, edging just close enough that Stiles can smell his cologne under the coppery blood scent. “Not with us.”

“Maybe I need some structure,” Stiles says. He leans against the back bumper. Peter steps even closer, one foot on either side of Stiles’. Stiles has to look up to meet his eyes. 

“Not with me,” Peter murmurs. He reaches forward and brushes the back of his fingers over Stiles’ cheekbone and down his jaw. A little thrill follows his touch. “You don’t come to me for obedience.” 

“What if I did want that?” Stiles asks, chin lifted. Peter stills. “What if I want you to be obedient?”

“What would you have me do?” Peter asks. He puts his hands on Stiles’ shoulders. 

“Get on your knees,” Stiles says, calling Peter’s bluff. 

But then Peter sinks down to the oil-stained pavement. He’s kneeling where he stood, one knee on either side of Stiles’ feet and his hands are placed carefully over Stiles’ hips. Stiles isn’t wearing his belt so the waist of his pants has slunk down to reveal the sensitive strip of skin beneath his navel. Peter’s thumbs move over his hip bones slow and soft, just this side of a tickle. 

“What now, my little lord?” Peter asks, playing a caricature of demure. He flutters his lashes, bites his lower lip. 

“You’re terrible,” Stiles says, pressing two fingers to his lips. Peter glosses his tongue between the fingers and Stiles shivers. “Have I ever mentioned how terrible I find you? Like off-the-charts terrible.”

Peter makes an agreeing noise and digs the tip of his thumb claws into Stiles’ skin. 

“You want it to be gentle? You want to make love to me?” Stiles asks, pressing Peter’s mouth open. Peter obligingly drops his jaw. He watches Stiles carefully and there’s a smile hidden in his eyes. “Yes or no?”

“Yes,” Peter slurs around Stiles’ fingers. “No. I want it all.”

“Come up here,” Stiles says, wiping his fingers on Peter’s shoulder. 

Peter rises nimbly, cradling Stiles against the Jeep. Peter presses his face into Stiles’ neck like he’s been stopping himself from doing it all night. He inhales, claws flexing against Stiles’ back. 

“I’m surprised you aren’t purring,” Stiles says, feeling up Peter’s ass. 

Peter huffs a laugh against Stiles’ neck and then licks a stripe from his collarbone to his chin. Stiles snorts, tilting his chin back and Peter continues to bite messily at Stiles’ mouth. 

“Can I take you home yet?” Peter asks between slow, filthy kisses. Stiles lets his head fall back against the Jeep and Peter forces himself that much closer. “Have my marks faded yet?”

“God, you’re such a freak,” Stiles says and Peter sighs with purpose. “Fine. You drive. I’m drunker than I meant to get.” 

“You want me to drive your Jeep?” Peter asks with the inflection of someone asked to put their hand in a cat box. He steps back from Stiles.

“I could drive I guess,” Stiles says, spinning his keys around his finger. He absolutely could. He just wants to distract Peter. 

“Ah,” Peter says, raising an eyebrow. He must read something in Stiles’ careful nonchalance.“I suppose I could bring myself to drive.”

“Driving Rosco is a gift,” Stiles says, laughing to himself. “A gift, Petey.”

***

It’s different tonight. 

Peter’s worked up from the drive and Stiles’ mouth and he practically carries Stiles’ up the stairs to his apartment. They don’t make it far once they’re in the house, stopping in the spotless, shiny chrome kitchen to make out with Stiles up on the counter. 

“What should I do with you?” Stiles asks, pulling Peter’s shirt over his head and then shedding his own. 

“Fuck me,” Peter suggests. He pulls Stiles’ off the counter and practically knocks his bedroom door down trying to get Stiles to the bed. “We haven’t done that yet.”

“Yeah,” Stiles groans, shimmying out of his pants on the bed. Peter shucks his and Stiles takes a moment to watch the muscles of Peter’s arms work as he pushes his underwear down. Peter preens, just barely, when he stands back upright and catches Stiles watching him. He moves to crawl onto the bed and Stiles stops him with a foot pressed to his chest. Peter looks like liquid sex, blown-out eyes and miles of soft skin and hard muscles. “You want my dick, Peter? You gotta work for it.”

“What if I say no?” Peter asks, still poised with one knee on the bed. 

“I’ll show you what happens,” Stiles says, letting steel into his voice. “If you really want.”

Peter licks his lips, then his mouth drops open just a little and he breathes in Stiles. 

“Soon,” he says, closing his eyes like he’s in pain. “Soon you’ll show me what you can do.”

“You want me to wreck you,” Stiles says, wonder gleaming through his tone. A thousand ideas ricochet through his mind. Wolfsbane ropes and electricity and what mountain ash could do embedded in a cock ring. “I will.”

“What are you?” Peter asks, dropping to his knees on the ground by the bed. He peers at Stiles like he can see the answer in his eyes. “What could you possibly be?”

Stiles sits up and scoots to the edge of the bed. He puts his legs on either side of Peter and enjoys the slide of Peter’s skin as the man leans up to press a kiss to Stiles’ chest. He laves his tongue over Stiles’ nipples in one long lick and Stiles’ shivers against him. Peter sets his mouth over one of the hickey’s that is just barely still present and sucks hard. 

It hurts, almost enough to stop feeling good, and Stiles grips Peter’s hair in both hands. Peter takes his time, reapplying fresh bruises over each paled hickey. Stiles’ breath catches in his chest each time Peter finds a new one and he finds himself squirming, trying to force Peter to set his teeth to the worst bruise of them all. The one on his neck. 

“Get up here,” he snaps finally. Peter moves up in one fluid motion and Stiles scoots back and up the bed so his head is on the pillow. “Get your lube. Get yourself ready.”

Where Stiles would be frantic at the instructions, Peter seems to calm. He throws a leg over Stiles, settles on his lower stomach. Stiles likes how heavy he is, he likes the density of the muscular man above him. When he fingers himself, he does it with methodical purposeful motions. 

Finally, Stiles turns them so he’s spread across Peter’s back. The first press is ground-shattering and he huffs a surprised breath into Peter’s ear. Peter hums appreciatively, sounding far too pleased with himself, and Stiles moves his knees apart sharply enough to drop Peter to his stomach. Stiles braces a forearm against Peter’s shoulders and sets a slow pace that still leaves his idiot body on the verge of orgasm from the second stroke.

“God damn it,” he hisses. “I’m not going to last.”

“S’okay,” Peter murmurs. He sounds blissfully fucked out and when he turns his head, Stiles sees the blue glow of his eyes. 

“You’re the first,” Stiles pants against the back of Peter’s neck. It’s not technically a lie. This body hasn’t done this. “Never been in anyone before.”

“Stiles,” Peter rasps, shredding his expensive sheets. 

“Are you ready?” Stiles asks, kissing the crook of Peter’s neck. “Ready?”

Peter rumbles his approval and Stiles bites him as he cums. It’s purposeful, a mirror of the bite Peter leaves on him, and Peter shakes into his own orgasm against the bed. 

***

The next morning, Stiles is warming up for his jog on the steps of Peter’s bougie brownstone apartment complex when a siren blips up the street. He turns, heart sinking a little, and spots his dad parking the cruiser a few cars down.

“Yo,” he calls, jogging over. His dad gets out of the car. 

“Yo,” his dad parrots, setting his arm on the roof of the cruiser and watching Stiles come over. “What are you up to? Why are you all the way over here in South Hills?”

“How’d you find me?” Stiles asks and his dad scoffs. 

“I wasn’t even looking. I just got through an all-nighter. I was on my way home. Animal attack at a club downtown,” his dad says. He’s got bags under his eyes and his uniform is wrinkly. “Answer the question, kid.”

“Ah. Well,” Stiles starts and his dad sighs. 

“Stop there. Please, don’t lie to me. I know Peter Hale lives in that building,” his dad says and he points. “What in the hell are you doing over here?”

_Having mindblowingly disgusting sex that would make you 5150 me_ , Stiles thinks to himself. What he says is, “Peter is helping me train for lacrosse.”

“Is he now?” His dad asks, crossing his arms. “Well, maybe I need to help you train too.”

“Sure, dad. The more the merrier,” Stiles says, aiming for normal. “We jog together a few times a week.”

“Uh huh,” Stiles’s dad says, poking his cheek with his tongue. “I guess I’ll have to bust out my jogging suit.”

“Ready for a two-k?” Peter calls from behind them. He’s wearing black jersey shorts and a tank with Nike’s. He slows his jog as he approaches, feigning surprise. “Deputy Stilinski, good to see you again.”

“It’s Sheriff now,” John says, raising his eyebrows. “Mr. Hale.”

“Call me Peter,” Peter says, smiling like he didn’t spend the night debasing himself under Stiles. After the first go, Stiles had pressed himself back into Peter. And then he’d done it a third time this morning after Peter had retrieved his car from wherever he’d left it last night. Stiles thanks God for werewolf libido. 

“Yep. Peter, Dad. Dad, Peter. Now we all know each other’s names,” Stiles sighs, folding his arms in front of himself. The bruises around his wrists are finally gone and he can wear t-shirts to run again. “I’ll see you at home, Dad?”

“When are you going jogging together next?” John asks and Stiles inhales through his nose. He doesn’t mind playing goofy teen for the most part but sometimes he just wants to pack a bag and fly to Tahiti. 

“I think I have Wednesday morning free,” Peter says, still smiling with banal. “Until nine. I have a meeting.”

“I’m sure you don’t mind if I join you two,” The Sheriff says and Peter shrugs. 

“Sounds great. There’s a killer hiking trail we could hit near your house,” he says. Stiles is uncomfortably impressed by his acting skills. He knew Peter was a talented manipulator. But he’s playing the part of a boring human almost too well. 

“Alright. See you then, Peter,” John says. “Son, I’ll see you at home. Be back by dinner.”

“Yessir,” Stiles says, saluting lazily. His dad gets back in the cruiser and Stiles and Peter begin jogging. 

“I hate running,” Peter says immediately. “I don’t need to do this. It’s a waste of energy and time.”

“Why does Derek do sit-ups then?” Stiles asks, genuinely curious. 

“He likes to have people look at him,” Peter snarks. “I haven’t even had coffee yet. I had to go from freshly fucked to work out clothing. That’s not fair.”

“It was pretty fresh,” Stiles agrees. They round the block. “Did my dad actually leave?”

“Yes,” Peter says, tilting his head. “He’s three or so blocks away. Towards your house.”

“You can go back to your place. I’ll be back in like forty,” Stiles says and Peter rolls his eyes. “I’ll make it up to you when I get back.”

“Make it up to me by taking the mountain ash barrier away. I keep waking up with rabbit fur in my teeth. I think my wolf has separation anxiety,” Peter says. Stiles is starting to breathe heavier. 

Stiles doesn’t know what to say. He wasn’t aware Peter even knew that his wolf was visiting. Is Peter aware of what happens when Stiles is with his wolf?”

“You’re going to be sweaty after this,” Peter says. 

“Very,” Stiles agrees. 

“Hmm,” Peter hums. “We should go visit Aleksy.”

“What? Why?”

“I’ll bet he knew those pissants from the club,” Peter says. 

“And my being sweaty is going to help us get information?” Stiles asks. 

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Peter says curtly. 

Stiles raises his hands in surrender. They run in silence for a few blocks and it’s not until Stiles is panting that he speaks again. 

“Why do you care if there are vampires?” He asks. “Doesn’t this fit into your evil master plan to destroy Beacon Hills?”

“I do intend to stay in Beacon Hills once I’m an Alpha,” Peter says. “I can share.”

“Did your heart grow, Mr. Grinch?” Stiles asks.

“You’re incredibly annoying,” Peter sighs. 

“You do seem less crazy,” Stiles says. He loops them across the street and back towards Peter’s apartment. “You know, in a good way.”

“I find myself more and more lucid,” Peter says. “I think in those first few days I was still mostly feral. Mostly an omega.” 

“I’ve gotta be honest, Cujo. I’m surprised you’re telling me this,” Stiles says after a moment. “Not very Sun Tzu of you.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not suddenly an upstanding member of society,” Peter says. He sends a filthy, nasty look towards Stiles. “A good man wouldn’t do any of the things I do to you.”

“A good man wouldn’t pretend to love his Pack while plotting how to overthrow them,” Stiles points out. 

“I’ll never be the man I was before the fire. That Peter is dead with the rest of my family. Laura and Derek are innocent though,” Peter says. “I won’t punish them for fate’s cruelty.” 

The likelihood of Peter lying is high. But a small part of Stiles, the last fleck of hope and good faith left in him, really wishes he was telling the truth. 

***

“Mieczysław,” Aleksy says without looking up from his ledger. “And Mister Hale. To what do I owe this visit?”

“Some of your kind weren’t following the rules,” Peter says. He walks slowly to the counter Aleksy is working at with his arms behind his back. “It became necessary to destroy them.”

“What were they doing that garnered your attention, Mister Hale?” Aleksy asks, setting his pen down and closing his ledger. 

“Actually they garnered mine,” Stiles says. He crosses to stand beside Peter, leans on the counter. Aleksy watches him carefully with dark brown eyes. Almost purple they’re so dark. “There was a small miscommunication. They wanted to steal my blood, I wanted to keep my blood.”

“You’re wearing my clothes,” Aleksy says in his funny, steady tone. He doesn’t blink. 

“That I am,” Stiles says, pulling his collar away from his neck. He’s in a black t-shirt, one of the soft ones, and a green jacket. 

“I apologize for my kin,” Aleksy says after a long pause. He blinks finally. “I, of course, approve of your actions. Thievery is unacceptable. I suppose you removed their left hands alongside their heads.”

“I think you just made a joke, old friend,” Peter says. “Are you feeling alright?”

Aleksy frowns at Peter before returning to his attentive watch of Stiles. 

“I am surprised. I specifically put out word among the ranks to avoid you,” Aleksy says. “This disregard of local law makes me think they were outsiders.” 

“How did I never know you were here?” Stiles asks, smiling despite himself. Aleksy must be a marquis if he’s making laws. Vampires live in loose groups of anywhere from twenty to one hundred members. The groups are governed by a small number of marquises who enforce rules and organize blood collections. 

“I find myself asking a similar question regarding you,” Aleksy says. 

Peter is silent through this exchange, watching them both through slitted eyes. 

“Where did they attack?” Aleksy asks. 

“A night club. _The Jungle_ ,” Stiles answers, shifting on his feet. “It attracts a surprising amount of preternatural folk.”

“Dark places. Alcohol. Loud music,” Aleksy summarizes. “As fine a hunting ground as any.”

“I will give you that,” Stiles says. “There were two. Do you think we should be worried about more?”

“Let me consult with my helpers,” Aleksy says simply and he turns to put his face close to a coat hanging behind the counter. 

Stiles holds his tongue politely. Then, the sleeve moves and a barely perceptible whisper meets his ears. Stiles freezes. Slowly, he tunes into a hushed swelling and falling of sound. A hundred minuscule voices speaking over each other. 

Stiles swivels to meet Peter’s eyes. 

“One at a time, my darlings,” Aleksy says politely. “Yes. Yes, I suppose so. Fine. Ah.”

“They’re called wisps, most commonly,” Peter intones, leaning over to speak into Stiles’ ear. “They like Aleksy.”

Stiles turns, looking for any sign of the wisps. Beneath a nearby jacket, he spots tiny ink-black feet attached to sooty legs smaller than his pinky fingers. Then, like he’s put on 3-D glasses, he sees dozens of tiny dark legs and the tips of white caps. 

“Why didn’t I notice?” Stiles asks, leaning into Peter. Aleksy is still speaking with his horde of tiny creatures. 

“If you don’t know to look, you can’t see them,” Peter says. “Now that you’re thinking about them, you can perceive them. When your mind wanders, they’ll disappear.” 

“Awesome,” Stiles says. “Will they talk to me?”

“Perhaps,” Peter says. “Most likely. We creatures seem to like you.”

“They think there are more,” Aleksy says suddenly. “Two or three.”

“How do they know?” Stiles asks. 

“They have sisters in many places,” Aleksy says. He moves back to the counter. “They can hear each other across great distances. The trouble lies in unraveling their many versions of the story.”

“Awesome,” Stiles says again. He can feel a genuine smile spread on his face. Sometimes the magic world is just cool. 

“Do you require help with the rest of the coven at _The Jungle_?” Aleksy says, drumming his fingers on the counter once. 

“Not at all, Aleksy,” Peter interjects. “We’ve got it covered.”

Aleksy places his hands purposely at his sides. Stiles holds his breath so he doesn’t sigh. Is Peter being possessive? Or protective.

“I think we can handle it,” Stiles says, meeting Aleksy’s eyes. He allows himself a true smile. “Though I would love to see you in action some time.”

“You need only ask,” Aleksy says.

His tone is polite, cold even, but there’s a hunger in the way he bites his lower lip. Stiles settles his own heart. 

“Well,” Peter says, bringing his hands together. “I suppose we must be off.”

“A moment, if you’ll indulge me,” Aleksy says.

“Yeah, totally,” Stiles says, trying to smooth the tension in the air. 

Aleksy moves behind the curtain and Stiles peers around for the wisps. His mind had wandered and, as Peter had warned, he’d lost track of them. There’s one on the desk, rolling a pen back and forth with its little foot. 

“Hi, little guy,” Stiles murmurs, leaning down so his chin is on the desk. “I’m Stiles.”

It ignores him, switching feet with a little hop. It’s maybe four inches tall, washed in blacks and gray aside from the pointy white cap on its head that hides its face. It’s shaped a little like a triangle with wide hips and narrow shoulders that lead up to an oversized hat. 

“They’ve talked to me,” Peter says, smug to a fault. He runs a hand down Stiles’ spine. “Once a few followed me home. I was probably fifteen? They stole every last sock from my room.” 

“Are they fae?” Stiles asks, eyes flicking up to Peter with concern. He’d yet to find proof of fairies but he’s terrified of the day he does. 

“No,” Peter says. He reaches across the desk and picks up the pen the wisp is rolling and draws a circle around it on the desk blotter. It draws its hand through the drying ink and then makes a series of tiny hand prints on the blotter. “Well. They’re as much fae as I am.”

“What does that mean?” Stiles asks, screwing up his face. 

Peter smiles at him charmingly and then Aleksy is pushing through the curtains. He sets a box on the counter, runs a loving hand over its surface. Then, he opens it. There’s a leather jacket inside, a carefully structured strange dark red creation. The zipper is made of a black metal and there’s a small, rolled collar. 

“A gift,” Aleksy says. He draws the zipper down and folds the breast outwards. “For protection.”

The jacket is lined entirely with thorns. Thousands of them, carefully woven and poking out from a fine gold netting. Stiles lifts a sleeve and tucks his fingers within. A sharp jolt of pain stings his fingers and he pulls them free. 

A drop of blood bloomed and fell from his fingertip. Stiles freezes, eyes darting up to Aleksy. Aleksy is placid-faced. He blinks twice and meets Stiles’ eyes. 

“Will you accept my coat?” Aleksy asks. “One day, will you wear it?”

“Stiles,” Peter says softly. A warning. “Aleksy doesn’t give gifts.”

“Today I do, Peter Hale. I gift you a coat, Mieczysław,” Aleksy says. “Free of cost. Freely given.”

“Thank you,” Stiles says. He picks up the coat. It’s warm to the touch, almost warm enough to be alive. The pinpricks of thorns mottle the gleaming gold mesh lining and Stiles can feel the inherent magic woven into it. “I accept. One day I’ll wear it.”

***

“I don’t like the idea of you bleeding by any other hand,” Peter says, staring at the white garment box in the back seat. He fakes a pout, turning his attention to Stiles. “I thought what we had was special.”

“It’s insane. And really hot,” Stiles concedes with a shrug. “But normal folks don’t fuck people they want to kill.” 

“Normal folks don’t grow claws or see the future,” Peter says. He reaches over to grab Stiles’ hand. He holds it up in front of his face, careening across lanes on the freeway with one eye on the road. The thorn prick has scabbed into a tiny dark blob. 

“I don’t see the future,” Stiles says. His breath is caught in his chest. Peter swerves onto the Beacon Hills exit without signaling and Stiles’ presses his other palm against his cock. “Hey, pull over.”

“Not now,” Peter says. He squeezes Stiles’ wrist a little too tightly before letting go. “I have to pick up Cora from the airport.”

“She’s here?” Stiles asks, whipping to face Peter. 

“If you weren’t freezing your pack out you would know,” Peter says mildly. “Derek has smelled miserable all week. Laura hasn’t sat still for more than ten minutes.”

“Don’t lecture me. I’ll head over after you drop me by my Jeep,” Stiles says. He crosses his arms. “I refuse to feel guilty.”

“I’m not going to lecture,” Peter says. “Far be it from me to tell anyone what to do.”

Quiet settles into the car. 

“Are you excited to see her?” Stiles asks. Malia flashes across his mind. He’s been mulling over what to do with her for months. 

“There aren’t words,” Peter says. He’s unusually serious and when Stiles looks at him there are minute signs of sorrow. Tightness around his eyes, a purse to his lips. “We Hale have so few kin left. I hope--I _pray_ that more of us will come out of the woodwork.” 

Malia runs through Stiles’ mind again, her tawny fur glowing under the sunlight. 

***

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says immediately. Laura is silent in the doorway but the furrow between her artfully sculpted eyebrows says volumes. “I’m a dick.”

“Come in,” she says finally. 

She runs her palm over his jaw and ear as he passes. He stands in the foyer, guilt filling his stomach. 

“I should have called,” he says and she tilts her head. “I am sorry.”

“Tell that to Derek,” Laura says. She sounds more tired than upset. “You’re the first person he’s let in since the fire. The very first. Before me or Peter. And you should appreciate that.”

“Is he here?” Stiles asks. He feels like throwing up. 

“Upstairs. In the library,” she says. “Please, don’t do that to us again.” 

“I won’t,” Stiles says. “Do you want me to leave?”

“Peter said that you don’t think you’re pack,” Laura says. “Is he right?”

“Well--,” Stiles starts, blanching. 

“He is,” Laura says. She crosses the foyer and presses her forehead to Stiles’. “You little idiot.”

“Hey, now,” Stiles protests weakly and she grips his shoulders. 

“You are pack. I claim you,” Laura says and Stiles’ feels tears well up from somewhere deep in his stomach. “I claim you.”

“Gonna go check on Derek,” he says, pulling away from her. 

He suppresses the yearning feeling building in his gut like a wasp nest. He hadn’t considered that Laura would view him as anything more than a vessel to her pack reclaiming Beacon Hills. He forgets, sometimes, that he’s a real person. He forgets that he’s not just an omniscient presence guiding Beacon Hills to safety. He’s been viewing them--all of them--like characters he controls. 

Laura and Derek are real people too. He can’t just check in and out of their lives. It’s cruel. 

“Hey, Der,” Stiles says, knocking on the open library door. Derek is in one of the window seats, curled into a horrible, vulnerable ball. He’s barefoot and in another sweater. 

“Stiles,” he says. He closes his book.

“Sorry. I got caught up in my own bullshit,” Stiles says, crossing the library. “It’s not an excuse. It won’t--I won’t leave you again.”

Derek makes a small noise in the back of his throat. 

“I swear. I promise,” Stiles says. He climbs over Derek’s legs to force him into a hug. Derek is still for all of two seconds and then he’s melting around Stiles. “I’m sorry, Derek.”

“It’s fine,” Derek says into Stiles’ neck. “Not again, though.”

“Not again,” Stiles agrees. 

“You were with Peter?” Derek asks after a long and thorough scenting. 

“He may have pointed out that I’m a giant ass,” Stiles says. He’s on his side between Derek’s legs. He can hear Derek’s heart. “He was looking out for you guys.”

“He seems more like he used to be,” Derek says. “Not happy. But he seems better.”

“That’s good,” Stiles says. “How about Laura?”

“Not yet,” Derek replies. He presses his nose into Stiles’ hair. 

“How about you?”

“Getting there,” Derek says. “I’m getting there.”

  
  


***

Stiles’ isn’t sure what to expect from this Cora. 

She’s fifteen, he thinks. She’s never been tortured by the Alpha Pack. He hopes, for Laura and Derek, that she’s okay. His time’s Cora had never been able to settle back in Beacon Hills. 

Derek and Laura suddenly sit up ram-rod straight and jolt to their feet. They’re moving in unison, almost running to the front door. Stiles follows as quickly as he can. 

Cora is already out of the car when he makes it to the porch. She’s sprinting up the driveway with a blue knapsack smacking against her back with each step. Laura and Derek meet her halfway and the Hale siblings crash into each other before the rebuilt Hale estate. Peter climbs out of the car and leans against the hood, watching them embrace. Stiles finds his eyes across the driveway and Peter exhales visibly. 

Stiles feels intrusive watching Laura gently hold the side’s of Cora’s tear-stained face and Derek pet her long ponytail. Peter takes an unspoken cue from Laura and he starts up the driveway towards them. He draws a hand over Cora’s back on his way past and then he’s climbing the stairs to stand beside Stiles. 

“Go meet her,” he says.

“Later,” Stiles says. 

He looks at Peter carefully. There’s a stiffness to his chin that can’t be anything except held back tears. The claws on his right hand are dug into his thigh and Stiles’ can just barely see a faint blood stain on the dark fabric. Stiles waits for the familiar tickle of _wrongwrongwrong_ that he usually feels when Peter lies or fakes an emotion. It doesn’t come. Stiles hesitates for a moment before he reaches over and pulls Peter’s hand away from his own leg. He laces his fingers between Peter’s and squeezes as hard as he can. 

Peter starts, just barely, but then he squeezes Stiles’ hand in reply and shifting a few inches closer. 

***

This Cora is still mistrusting, cautious and guarded. She slinks around the house on silent feet and Laura and Derek take turns tailing her. Peter takes up his throne in the sitting room in a crimson wing back armchair, an old leather-bound book in hand. Stiles sits on the edge of the fireplace and texts Scott about planning a mall day with his human friends. 

“Will you come over tonight?” Peter asks, folding his book closed. 

“No,” Stiles says. “I think my dad is getting suspicious.”

“Fine,” Peter says. He opens his book again. 

***

Allison shows up to the mall day in leggings and Scott’s lacrosse hoodie. Her hair is pulled back messily from her face with little clips and she looks awful. Scott leads her through the food court by the hand, a worried expression on his face. 

“What happened to you guys?” Stiles blurts, running through the catalog of big bads that could potentially be in town. 

“Stiles,” Scott hisses, hugging Allison from behind as she sits at the table. “Come on, dude.”

“Sorry,” Stiles says, shifting uncomfortably on the bench. 

“My aunt is missing,” Allison says tearfully. “I guess she was supposed to come visit months ago but she never made it.”

“Nobody reported her missing?” Isaac asks gently, reaching over the table to grab Allison’s hand. 

“No. She’s always going on trips. Nobody knew where she was supposed to be,” Allison answers. “My grandpa is in town to help look for her I guess. They tracked her debit card charges and I guess she made it to Beacon Hills. But now she’s missing.”

Allison’s words echo crazily in his ears and Stiles realizes distantly that he's having a panic attack. His breath gallops in his chest, hitching and halting on the exhalation. He scratches at his shirt collar, pulling it in an attempt to force air flow. 

Gerard. Stiles’ hears electricity crackle on skin, Erica’s muffled sobs. He can see her eyes, wide and scared and ringed by running mascara. The sensation of his cheek cracking into a concrete floor when Gerard had stepped on his face. Black spots spiral on the edge of his vision and it’s only when Derek’s face swims in front of him does he realize he’s on the floor. 

“Der--Der--,” he stutters. 

“It’s okay, Stiles,” Derek says evenly, holding Stiles’ shoulders. “In and out. With me.”

Stiles grasps his arms desperately, choking on his breath to the point of nearly vomiting. 

“You’re fine. Breathe. In and out,” Derek orders firmly. “Now. In and out.”

“I--I--I’m trying,” Stiles snaps and Derek frowns. Stiles sucks in a breath and releases it and the oxygen rushing to his brain just allows him to be embarrassed. “W-why are you here?”

“Cora,” Derek says and Stiles looks beyond him. Cora is standing right behind Derek, peering down at Stiles with a concerned expression. She crouches, setting aside her shopping bags, and puts her hand on Stiles’ neck. Scenting him for the first time. 

“I’m okay,” he says and she scoffs. Derek leans back so Stiles’ can sit up all the way. 

“What happened?” Derek asks, shifting slightly to look at Scott standing nearby and the table of Stiles’ scared friends. 

“Nothing,” Stiles says. “Choked on my Orange Julius.” 

“Lie,” Cora says, tilting her head so her ribbons of long hair fall over her shoulder. “It’s not polite to lie.”

“Cora,” Derek chides with zero heat. He’s smiling softly at her like she just hung the moon. 

“Are you coming to dinner tonight?” Cora asks seriously. Her hand is still on his neck. “We are renting the new _Indiana Jones_.”

“I’m there,” Stiles says immediately. “It’s terrible. You’re all going to hate it.” 

“See you,” Derek says, yanking Cora to her feet. He reaches down and helps Stiles up. Stiles watches Derek carefully _not_ watch Allison. 

“Bye, Stiles,” Cora says. She looks at Allison blatantly and then the Hales melt into the crowd. 

Stiles turns to face his friends. At some point Lydia, Jackson and Danny arrived. Stiles wants to go home. 

“Are you okay, dude?” Scott asks quietly, reaching out and pulling him into side-hug. He turns them so they’re facing away from the group. “You haven’t had one of those in a long time.”

“I’m okay. Just had a moment. I’m good,” Stiles assures him. “I think I’m going to head off though.” 

“You sure, man?”

“Yeah, I’m really beat now,” Stiles lies. He needs to warn Peter. He needs to warn Laura. “I’ll catch you soon.”

“Okay, brother,” Scott says. He pats Stiles’ back lightly. They turn back to the table. 

“I’ll catch you guys later,” Stiles says. He plays up the embarrassment factor, rubs the back of his head with one hand. “Sorry about your aunt, Ally.”

“Yeah,” Allison says nodding. She bites her lip. “Feel better, Stiles.”

Stiles avoids everyone else’s eyes and hightails it out of the food court. 

***

He’s banging on Peter’s apartment door twenty minutes later. 

“Hello?” He calls, rattling the door knob. 

“What?” Peter snaps, pulling open the door. “What could you possibly want that is this important?”

“How about Gerard Argent being in town?” Stiles says, just as heated. He pushes past Peter. “They know Kate is missing.”

“So?” Peter drawls, following Stiles into the kitchen. He keeps a sixer of ciders for Stiles in the fridge and Stiles cracks on open and drains half of it. Peter raises an eyebrow, mouth twisted. “You’re scared.”

“So?” Stiles asks, sneering. He takes another long pull of the cider. “You aren’t?”

“Not like you are,” Peter says with a thoughtful expression. “You’re terrified. You smell like anxiety and tears and…. Derek.”

“I had a moment at the mall, Derek and Cora were there. It’s fine,” Stiles says, trying to control his body. Every time he thinks Gerard’s name he feels like vomiting. He finishes the cider. 

“I’ll protect you,” Peter says, frowning across the kitchen. 

Stiles looks away from him and drops the empty cider bottle into the recycling. Peter pads across the kitchen on bare feet and brackets him against the nearest counter. Peter sets his chin on Stiles’ neck and exhales softly. Stiles’ head falls back on to Peter’s shoulder and he allows himself to find comfort in Peter’s strength. 

“He couldn’t have been the one to hurt you,” Peter says. They’re both quiet for a moment. “But I’m going to kill him either way.”

“He’s smart, Peter,” Stiles says. “And ruthless.”

“So--,” Peter says, pausing to kiss the nape of Stiles’ neck. “--am I.”

The kiss turns into many and they trail down the side of Stiles’ neck to his shoulder--the one with the bite. Peter pulls Stiles’ coat down his shoulder and then hooks a finger in the collar of his shirt and tugs it aside. Stiles can tell he’s just looking at the overlapping rings of bruises, at the mottled purplegreenyellow of a dozen bite marks. Each bite is a message, a promise from Peter that Stiles’ is his. 

Whether he can take Gerard is another issue. 

***

Deaton is waiting for Stiles inside the clinic. He must have known he was on the way with his witchy-druid powers. Peter follows closely as Stiles makes his way into the lobby. 

“Mr. Stilinski, Mr. Hale” Deaton says. “I close in seven minutes.”

“I need more supplies,” Stiles says. “I need tools for warding.”

“I thought I would see you earlier than this,” Deaton says, tilting his head. “The Hale house has been rebuilt for some time now.”

“Will you help our pack?” Stiles asks, as curt as he dares to be. Peter is eerily still beside him. 

“Follow me,” Deaton says in his calm, even voice. Stiles looks at Peter before crossing the mountain ash boundary. Peter looks calm, almost happy. Stiles’ tables that. 

Deaton pulls a small, carved trunk from a cabinet and sets it on an exam table. Stiles is reaching to open it when Deaton flattens his own hand on the lid. 

“First, my price,” Deaton says. “I want to know why you want these items.”

“What would you do if I just took it?” Stiles asks, genuinely curious. 

“I’m honestly not sure,” Deaton says. He visibly considers it. “Let’s not find out.”

“Gerard Argent is in town,” Stiles says. “I’d like him to keep away from my pack.”

“Ah. Your pack,” Deaton says. “Well, I suppose I can understand protecting your pack. Thank you.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, reaching for the lid again. Deaton allows him to open it this time and Stiles takes him time selecting a myriad of herbs and a six-inch moonstone blade. 

“If you need help again you know where to find me,” Deaton says as he shows Stiles to the door. 

“Thank you,” Stiles says and then he follows Peter out of the lobby.

He feels a strange sense of urgency moving under his skin and he has to stop himself from sprinting to his Jeep. Peter matches his speed, still calm and happy. 

Stiles feels like Peter, bobbing and weaving through traffic in his mad rush to the Hale house. 

“Talk to me, big guy,” Stiles says as they leave the city limits. “I’m about to bounce out of my fucking skin.”

“Tonight, after you ward my pack’s home,” Peter starts. His voice is silky, hot and quiet. “I’m going to take you out to my favorite meadow. And the moon is nearly full. I’m going to spread you out under that moon and take you in the grass. It’s summer so I imagine the flowers will be in full-bloom. Blue bonnets. Your skin will look silver against them, lit up by the moonlight.”

“Sounds awfully close to that mushy shit you pulled the other night,” Stiles says, glancing at Peter. The distraction is nice. 

“If you want to bleed, you can bleed,” Peter says agreeably. “At the very least, I’m going to work you over until you sweat away every particle of Derek’s scent.”

“You’re jealous,” Stiles says. He drums his fingers over the steering wheel. “Should I wear Aleksy’s thorn jacket? What will you do if I’m covered in his marks?”

“I would burn that jacket if I didn’t think Aleksy would rend me limb from limb,” Peter says. 

“I don’t know what you thought would happen,” Stiles says, turning on to the road to the preserve. The Hale Estate drive splits from this road. “You basically served me on a plate to him.”

“I underestimated your death wish,” Peter says. “I thought meeting an ancient cannibal would make you frightened, not horny.”

“What did you say in the forest?” Stiles asks, turning on the Hale drive. “I’m attracted to power, too. ”

“You aren’t attracted to power, little pig,” Peter says in a dark voice. “You’re attracted to dying. Like a moth to a vicious flame.”

“Oh, no,” Stiles protests. They’re a mile from the Hale estate. “Go back to the sex talk. What are you going to do to me under the moonlight?”

“Fuck your brains out,” Peter says simply and when Stiles turns to him he’s smiling pleasantly. 

“Sounds great. I could use a dick lobotomy,” Stiles says, just to make Peter frown. He laughs at the souring of Peter’s catalog model smile. 

Rounding the corner of the driveway, Stiles speeds up a little more. He’s losing the daylight to carve by. 

“Something’s wrong,” Peter says, dropping all playfulness. “Hurry.”

Stiles’ stomach drops and his hands tremble on the steering wheel. He guns it, pulling up the driveway with a spray of gravel. There’s a black SUV parked by Laura’s white BMW. Peter’s lunging his way out of the Jeep before Stiles’ can turn off the ignition and Stiles is scrabbling after him. He speed dials his dad, holding the phone to his ear as he rounds the black SUV. 

Stiles spots Victoria Argent’s red hair and his heart leaps to his throat. She’s on the steps of the porch beside Chris. There’s no sign of Gerard but that doesn’t mean anything. Laura is stood before her front door and Stiles can see Derek’s blue eyes behind her in the foyer. Peter meets Stiles eye’s and nods towards the side of the house. He slinks, unnoticed by the Argents, around the side of the house to do a perimeter check. 

Stiles marches through the gravel, announcing his presence to all parties as loudly as possible. Victoria swivels neatly to meet his eyes. 

“Hey, pops,” he says to his father’s voicemail. He holds Victoria’s gaze with purpose. “Yeah, I’m good. Just got to the Hale’s. Yeah, I’ll be home in like thirty, I just needed to drop off those movies. Oh, I think Ally’s parents are here. Yeah, I’ll call you when I’m headed home. Bye--Yeah, Bye, love you.” 

He only has eyes for Victoria as he hangs up his phone and stuffs it in his pocket. He hops up the steps, cutting between Chris and Victoria, to take his place behind Laura’s shoulder. 

“What’s--uh--what’s up?” He asks, setting a hand on Laura’s lower back. “Is the Booster Club doing outreach now?”

“Just stopping by,” Chris says congenially. “It’s good to know your community.”

“Too true,” Stiles agrees, laying on the douchey-teen act. “When dad does his door-to-doors I probably shake hands with ¾’s of the community.”

“It’s good to be involved,” Victoria says then. She doesn’t smile so much as bare her teeth. “Well, we ought to be going. It was nice to meet you, Laura. And it was good to see you, Stiles.”

“Yeah, you guys too,” Stiles says when it looks like Laura isn’t going to say anything. Her breathing is robotically even but Stiles can see her fingers shaking. He cuts in front of her, crowding onto the steps right above the Argents. “Drive safe now.”

“Thank you,” Victoria says, turning and primly making her way down the steps. 

Chris lingers, watching Stiles carefully. He doesn’t move back at all and he and Stiles are toe-to-toe. 

“This is a nice house,” Chris says mildly. “I have an insurance guy if you want his card. It’s never a bad idea to have good insurance.”

Rage settles into Stiles, gritty and dark like coffee grounds. He doesn’t think, simply acts, headbutting Chris as hard as he can square in the face. 

Surprise flashes across Chris’ face, replaced by an answering anger just as quickly. He holds a hand to his bloody nose. 

“Jesus,” Chris swears, staggering down a few steps. “What’s your problem, kid?”

“Get off of this property. Right the fuck now,” Stiles snaps, vibrating at the urge to lunge at Chris again. Derek’s sad face, Laura’s jittery anxiety, Peter’s anger all fill his mind. How dare Chris come _here_ and threaten them. “Now.” 

“You heard him,” Peter says from the porch, a vicious growl tugging his words into a warning. “And don’t come back. This is Hale land.” 

Chris doesn’t say another word. He turns curtly and stomps across the driveway to his SUV, nose in hand. Stiles stands on the steps, tense and rageful until someone takes his hand. 

“You’re bleeding,” Laura says. Her eyelashes are clumped with unspent tears but her face is steady with pride. “Let me clean it, pup.” 

“That was stupid,” Stiles says, pinching his nose. Blood has already trickled down to splatter on his chest and the white steps of the house. “How do you get blood out of cashmere?”

***

Carving the wards into the Hale Estate takes hours. He decides to mark each tree ringing the house. Stiles sets up a decent production rate of carving the wards himself with the moonstone blade and then allowing a Derek or Cora to follow behind him and smear the herb poultice over the symbols. 

Laura and Peter have been shut into Peter’s office since Chris and Victoria had left. 

“What are they saying now?” Stiles asks, winging a line off his rune carefully. Cora shifts her bowl of poultice to her hip and tilts her ear towards the house. 

“They’re talking about how cool you are,” Cora says, half-smiling. “That was pretty cool. With the whole headbutt thing.”

“Probably could have handled that with more diplomacy,” Stiles says, shrugging. He rubs a thumb over the no-see-um rune, one for hiding property from those who would do harm. Then he starts on the fire-drowner rune. “Do as I say, not as I do?”

“We’re the same age,” Cora says with an eye roll. “I’ll do whatever I want.”

“So, how old are you?” He asks, hoping for a more clear answer this time around. Last time she’d said something about ‘human years’ and he had just washed his hands of the issue. 

“I was born 16 calendar years ago,” she says, smooshing herbs into his runes. 

“You know what, I don’t want to know,” Stiles says, moving on to the next tree. Derek drifts across the lawn to stand near him. “How old are you?”

“Twenty? Maybe,” Derek asks. “Twenty of your years, We calculate age differently.”

“Can you summarize your wolfy calculations in one sentence?” Stiles asks and Derek shakes his head. “Okay. Keep it to yourself.”

“I can,” Cora says, trailing behind him. “We age like the ocean.”

There’s a beat. 

“I just simply don’t have time to tell you how unhelpful that is,” Stiles says. He has a few trees left and he moves along to the next one. 

“The moon causes the ebbing and flowing of the ocean,” Derek says. He makes a quiet, considering noise. “We are children of the moon. She changes us in many ways.”

“One, that was three sentences. Two, not one of them clarified anything,” Stiles says. “I thought you guys were--uh--Lilith’s kids?”

“Sam diff,” Cora says, spinning on her heels. “Lilith is the moon. And we aren’t really her kids. More like we wear her kids.”

“That makes us sound like freaks,” Derek says, jiggling his bowl of poultice with mild interest. “We wear the skin of her children.”

“That’s not better, Der,” Cora says with a laugh. 

Derek frowns. Then he flicks a fingerful of the poultice at her. She growls with delight and drops her bowl to lunge for him. Stiles watches them flit in and out of the trees for a long time. They’re both quiet but their wide grins are easy to spot in the dusk. 

Stiles’ finds himself misty eyed as he turns back to etch a series of concentric circles into a redwood. His Derek never got to joke with Cora. Never got to tease or laugh or scent her. That Cora was just as forged as that Derek. Hard and miserable and always running. 

He gathers Cora’s abandoned poultice bowl and seals the final rune. Then, he starts on the four corners of the house. 

***

Later, after the movie and after the Hale’s have sent Stiles home, Peter scratches his claws down Stiles’ thighs in the meadow. Stiles is on top, grinding down on Peter. Delicate ribbons of blood run from the scratches and Stiles arches back, chin tilting so his face is upturned to the moon. The head of Peter’s cock catches where Stiles’ is hot and wet and Peter surges under him. Peter drives himself home, forcing a huffed moan from Stiles. 

“Tell me what you need,” Peter says, gripping Stiles’ hips and bracing his feet against the grass so he can fuck up into Stiles. 

Stiles can barely think, Peter’s punching this soft hurt noises out of him, but it’s not enough. 

“More. Harder,” he manages to choke out, reaching up the scratch his blunt nails over his own neck. 

Peter turns them, shoving Stiles’ face into the grass and sliding back in with enough strength to force the air from Stiles’ lungs. His nose hurts and there’s a rock digging into his cheek. His blood sings in his veins and he turns his knees in so Peter can get just that much deeper. 

“More, please,” he says in raspy vocalizations. Peter readjusts his hold on Stiles’, one hand slides up his spine to curve around his throat. Stiles is bowed, barely able to suck in a breath and he feels his eyes cross when Peter really lets him have it. 

“Mine,” Peter says and then it turns into a whispered chant, a prayer. “Mine. Mine. Mine.” 

Air scrapes through Stiles’ throat and he has a hysterical moment of humor. Hours ago, he wished for air in the throes of a panic attack and now he’s writhing on the end of Peter’s dick for the chance to lose his breath. The irony is not lost on him.

He’s annoyed he can still think this much so he pulls away from Peter, breaking his hold on Stiles’ throat and scrambling out from under him. Peter follows in an instant, his hulking body covers Stiles’. Peter forces Stiles’ onto the ground with a vicious shove, catching one of Stiles’arms and forcing it behind his back. 

Stiles’ face bounces off the ground and he feels blood sluice from his nose again. Peter pushes back in and Stiles’ lets loose a soft moan, arching back until his shoulder protests. Peter’s got his forearm pinned between his shoulders and he’s leaning a lot of his weight on Stiles’, if not all of it. 

“Come on,” Stiles urges, seeking that mindless place Peter can push him to. “You said you were gonna fuck my brains out.”

“Oh, little pig,” Peter says in a low, gravelly voice. He shoves Stiles’ arm up that little bit further and something pops in Stiles’ shoulder. “If I fucked you any harder, I would kill you.”

Stars burn and die in Stiles’ eyes, angels sing, and he slips into his orgasm with a helpless desperation he can only compare to drowning.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW for vomit, dislocated limbs and Gerard Argent.

Stiles would very much like to leave. 

Deaton is frowning. Peter is carefully aloof. Stiles just wants to disappear. 

“I’m sure you won’t mind stepping out of the room? I have some more sensitive questions to ask our young friend,” Deaton says mildly in Peter’s direction. 

Stiles has to give him credit, he’s holding this ground. Peter looks like the Devil incarnate, tall and aristocratic with expensive clothes on. Perhaps the sharp juxtaposition of Peter’s well-styled pea coat and chino’s is too much compared to Stiles’ stained, unwashed workout clothes for Deaton to handle. 

After their time in the meadow, Stiles had known something was wrong when he’d splayed out on the grass besides Peter. Not even the sight of Peter’s artfully carved musculature, glistening with sweat, could distract from the awful pain in his shoulder. And now at three in the morning, Stiles is in the vet clinic with Peter. 

He rubs a thumb under his nose, feeling for any dried blood and finding some. He winces internally and focuses very hard on not looking like an abused kid. 

“Just go,” Stiles says, raising an eyebrow at Peter. He gingerly gestures towards his shoulder. “I think this puppy is going to be reset. Feels dislocated.”

“Have you had many dislocated shoulders?” Deaton asks, edging closer. 

“The normal amount,” Stiles hedges. 

“I’ll just step out then, I suppose,” Peter says. His mouth twists, just barely, into a smile and Stiles fights the urge to throw something at him. 

Deaton and Stiles watch Peter leave together and then the silence in the room becomes unbearably tense. 

“Tell me again how you hurt your shoulder,” Deaton says, facial expression too calm to be sincere. 

“I was goofing around and landed wrong,” Stiles says. “You know how it goes.” 

“No, I don’t,” Deaton says matter-of-factly. “How did Peter happen upon you at this late hour?”

“The pack lives near where I hurt myself,” Stiles recites dutifully. He suppresses the urge to scream. “Do you mind moving this along? My shoulder is killing me, man.” 

“Do you feel safe with him?” Deaton asks and Stiles exhales slowly. 

“I hurt myself by accident. I would really like to move this along,” Stiles says. He reels his temper in and meets the doctor’s eyes. “I’m tired. I’m hurt. Nobody is abusing me. I just want to get home.” 

Deaton drops it there. The x-ray is uncomfortable in an unexpected way. Stiles is blatantly aware of the marks Peter has left on him as well as how carefully Deaton is not commenting on them. Stiles pulls his shirt on and stares at the grout on the floor after Deaton maneuvers his shoulder bone back into place. 

“You’ll need to keep it in a sling for at least two weeks. You might need physical therapy,” Deaton says, watching Stiles with his dark eyes. “As this is an animal clinic, I do not have slings for humans.” 

“Right,” Stiles says, wincing. “How about pain killers? Got any kitty Vicodin?”

“I’ll give you a few days’ supply,” Deaton says. “What exactly do you intend to tell the Sheriff?”

“I’ll leave your name out of this,” Stiles says. He scoots off the table, holding his arm carefully. 

“That’s not what I mean,” Deaton says. He looks concerned. “Stiles, your body is covered in wounds. Bites and scratches and bruises. One of your arms is out of commission. He’s going to notice.”

“Look, when you play with the big dogs you get hurt, huh?” Stiles asks, irritated. “I’m fixing this Hellmouth. I’m making it someplace safe. And you don’t get a say in what I need to do to make that happen. Or in how I do it. Do you know what happens if you don’t pick a side? It means you grant permission for some fucked-up stuff to happen.” 

“A crusade to ‘fix’ Beacon Hills,” Deacon says. “May I ask when the cost will be too high? How far is too far?”

“There isn’t a ‘too far’,” Stiles snaps. “Not for this town. Not for these people.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Deaton says, holding Stiles’ gaze. Silence bristles between them and then he sighs. “Wait here a moment.”

He returns with a pill bottle and he watches silently as Stiles fits it in his back pocket. Then, he leads Stiles’ to the front lobby where Peter is waiting with a baleful smile. 

“All fixed up?” He asks, smiling with all his teeth. 

“I need a sling,” Stiles says. He stops at the door and turns back to look at Deaton. Deaton is watching them, always so still and always so silent. “Thank you.”

“You need only call,” Deaton says and Stiles pushes open the front door. 

Stiles is silent as he climbs into the passenger side of his Jeep. His shoulder is throbbing. He carefully pulls the pill bottle out of his pocket and strains to read the label. Peter’s not quite in the car, he’s still talking to Deaton at the door. He has the keys. 

He thinks it says take two but he’s not sure and decides that it doesn’t matter anyways. Getting the bottle off with one hand is miserable. He can’t, he just can’t, and gripping the bottle is impossible. His fingers can’t grip the bottle or lid firmly enough. Rage bubbles beneath his exhaustion and then, like a compressed firecracker, Stiles explodes. He throws the plastic bottle hard against his windshield to crack the bottle and scatter pills across the dashboard. 

“Fuck,” Stiles says with feeling, dropping forward so his forehead presses on the dash. The rage fades as quickly as it came just to be replaced with a fetid numbness. Tears burn in his eyes and Stiles’ marvels at how he can weep when he feels nothing. Did he really used to cry this much?

His door opens. 

“Poor little piggy,” Peter murmurs from beside him. A hand draws briefly over his scalp and Stiles blinks away the tears clotting his vision. “Sit up.”

Stiles obeys, smearing the sleeve of his compression shirt over his face in an attempt to dry it. Peter plucks three tablets from the dashboard and serves them to Stiles on an open palm. Stiles takes them, swallowing them dry. 

“Get me out of here,” Stiles says with a croaky voice. Peter smudges a thumb through the clinging dampness under Stiles’ eye. He presses the thumb to his own tongue and Stiles snorts. “Come on, freak. I’ll let you lick it off my face if you go in the store for the sling.”

Peter closes the door wordlessly and circles around to open the driver’s side. Stiles lets his mind drift on the quiet ride to the drug store. Peter’s found a radio station playing older songs and a woman croons about finding paradise alone on her roof. 

***

His body gives up while Peter is in the store and when Stiles awakens again, it’s to a long and slow pull of a tongue against his neck. He blinks into awareness, fingers creeping into Peter’s silky hair. He’s cropped it shorter on the sides, always trendy, and Stiles’ wishes he was twining Peter’s curly coma-hair in his fingers. Stiles had liked that style the best. 

Peter continues tasting his tears, tongue drawing over Stiles’ skin up to his cheekbone. Stiles’ shivers when Peter brushes his lips over Stiles’ salt-clumped eyelashes. The pain pills give his body an elated, floaty feeling. 

“Would you eat me if I let you?” Stiles mumbles, losing the train of thought as soon as the words leave his mouth. 

“You have an astonishing gift for ruining moments,” Peter says wryly. He presses his nose into the soft space behind Stiles’ jaw and inhales slowly. “Am I to tip the drugged, injured son of the Sheriff into his childhood bed tonight? Or will you come to mine?”

“Home,” Stiles says, curling his good arm around Peter’s neck. “My home. You can stay if you want.” 

Peter inhales Stiles’ scent once more and then he pulls back. Fitting the sling on Stiles must be like catching water in a colander but Peter doesn’t complain. Dad isn’t home so Peter follows him upstairs. 

“You should shower,” Peter says absently, drifting past Stiles’ into the bedroom. He’s looking for something, peering around the room with purpose. 

“You just want me naked and wet,” Stiles says. His voice cracks and he finds that his eyes are watering again. “This is so stupid. I don’t understand why I’m--”

“Why you’re what?” 

“Why I’m so weepy,” Stiles says, rubbing his tears away. 

“Maybe your feeble human body is tired,” Peter offers, rifling through Stiles’ underwear drawer. He selects a pair of blue boxer-briefs and stuffs them neatly into his pocket. Then he turns and smiles winningly at Stiles. “Shower?”

“Fine,” Stiles sniffles, feeling vague irritation with himself. 

Peter looks ludicrous in his bathroom, like Dracula in a Best Buy. He hangs his pea coat on the towel hook and folds his shirtsleeves up to his elbows before turning on the shower. 

He undresses Stiles, lingering to brush fingers over Stiles’ bruises and scars. The long, curving scars from the ghoul attack get a special reverence. 

“Are you going to admit those are from you?” Stiles asks, lacing his fingers into Peter’s hair for balance. 

Peter cranes his neck from where he’s kneeling, eyes soft and mouth agape around vicious fangs. Stiles dully notes the flicker of fear his stupid body produces. It’s probably a good thing that his body has a mind of its’ own, it most likely hides some of Stiles’ wrongness. 

“All of these,” Peter says softly. He touches the freshest wounds, the thin scratches on Stiles’ thighs. “All mine.”

“Freak,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. The pain medication still has him floaty and he can barely feel the ache in his shoulder. Peter helps him out of the sling and his shirt with quick, efficient moves. The strange, almost lost, expression lingers on his face. 

Peter, tender, reverential, helps him into the shower. Stiles faces the shower head, sighing as the hot water sluices over his neck and chest. He watches quietly as Peter selects a washcloth and drizzles Stiles’ Axe body wash on to it. 

“Does this double as shampoo for you?” Peter asks, aghast, as he looks around the shower. 

“I don’t really wash my hair,” Stiles says and he begins to shrug before easing his shoulder back down with a wince. “I use that stuff for everything.” 

“It smells abhorrent,” Peter says staunchly. “And it’s incredibly drying. All of these unnecessary fragrances.”

“So buy me new stuff,” Stiles says then he tilts his face into the spray. The water gets in his nose a little but it feels so good on his tired eyes. 

Peter waits for him to lean out of the spray to start cleaning Stiles’ back. He starts at the base of Stiles’ neck and works his way down, carefully avoiding Stiles’ shoulder. He’s thorough to a fault, pressing his fingers into Stiles’ where he’s sore and still slick between his legs. 

“Really?” Stiles asks, bracing his good arm against the wall. “I don’t even think I could get hard if I wanted to.” 

“That’s not essential to the activity,” Peter says, leaning into the water spray to kiss Stiles’ unharmed shoulder. His fingers are feeling more pleasant than invasive at this point. “I could get you off without any erections involved.” 

“Peter,” Stiles says in protest and is immediately horrified by his petulant tone. He clears his throat and sticks his head back under the water. Maybe enough will get in his nose to drown him. 

“Yes?” Peter purrs, moving his fingers with purpose. 

Arousal curls in Stiles’ stomach and he considers the offer for a moment. Then he thinks about how nice it will feel to crawl into bed and sleep. 

“No,” Stiles says. 

Peter nods slightly and continues his scrub down. Stiles turns when prompted and Peter gives his front the same careful cleansing. Then, he dries Stiles completely in the shower like he’s a dog and helps him into pajamas and his sling. Laying down in bed is nearly euphoric for Stiles. He’d never known comfort until this very moment. He’s nodding off in an instant, his eyelids dipping down in dramatic flutters as soon as his head touches the pillow. 

Peter sits on the edge of his bed, still and magnificent in the dull light from the moon outside. He looks over Stiles with a dismissive, almost bored expression on his face and Stiles reaches out to pinch his arm. 

“What do you want, Stiles?” Peter asks, leaning back to artfully drape himself over Stiles’ thighs. He props himself up with an elbow on the other side of Stiles’ hip. He’s holding something that glitters dully in the dark room in his free hand. 

“I want you to tell me what you’re thinking,” Stiles says. He feels cross-eyed and stupid. 

“I’ve never hurt someone like that before,” Peter says, his tone falsely airy. 

He lets the glittery thing puddle on Stiles’ blanket and Stiles picks it up. It’s the cursed necklace. Well, not cursed but—

“You absolutely have,” Stiles says, thoughts all colliding and spilling out of his mouth. “You killed someone.” 

“That was different,” Peter says. He looks down and his eyelashes become dark smudges on his elegant cheekbones. “The Argent woman was a monster who killed 95% of my loved ones. You haven’t done anything except force me to take care of my family.”

“What exactly are you saying?” Stiles asks, fighting sleep. 

“You bring out something in me. Something I don’t recognize. When I was feral—mad with grief—it felt natural to hurt you. But now, so distanced from that place, I wonder why I still enjoy it,” Peter says. He tilts his chin back and the long column of his throat makes Stiles’ mouth dry. “You make me...ravenous.”

“That’s fucked up, man,” Stiles says, unable to quiet his tongue. “We can end this. If you want.”

“We went to a place tonight I’ve never been,” Peter says. He turns his face, chin still tipped up, and Stiles feels like he’s just grabbed the loose thread of an unraveling sweater. Peter’s eyes flare blue and he grins with wolves’ teeth. “I’ve never hurt someone like that. But I want to hurt you. I want to do everything to you.”

Silence simmers between them and Stiles becomes aware of his own quickened breath. 

“I guess I can still get a boner,” Stiles mumbles and sleep finally overtakes him. 

***

When he awakens the next morning his shoulder is a raw, sobering ache. But he gets up anyways and takes two pills from the lot Peter’s collected with a plastic bag. He takes another shower, this one much more awkward, and then forces himself to eat. He bums around until lacrosse practice and resigns himself to bench-warming. 

The boredom is rewarded by Scott and Isaac reenacting what they think happened to Stiles’ shoulder and he enjoys laughing with part of his pack in the sunshine. He’s a little tiny bit high from the pills and it just rolls into his joyful mood. 

After practice, they’re all swarming out towards their various rides and cars and Stiles is half-listening to Scott outline his game plan for their C.O.D. game later that night when something catches his attention. 

There’s someone leaning on his Jeep. 

His first thought is a warm  _ Peter _ followed immediately by the ice revulsion of realization. Stiles freezes, wincing when Scott bumps into him and jostles his shoulder. Gerard Argent, tall and strong despite his visible gray hair and wrinkles, is stood by Roscoe in a black canvas jacket. Stiles can see the slight bump of a pistol handle by his rib and the self-righteous smug expression on his face. 

“What’s up, Stiles?” Scott asks, peering over Stiles’ shoulder. 

“Uh,” Stiles says intelligently and then Allison breaks into his field of vision on his left. 

“My grandpa,” she says, smiling at them. “Come meet him.” 

“Kind of hard not to,” Stiles says, fear still streaming adrenaline through his veins. “He’s on my baby.”

“Hi,” Allison cheers, waving exuberantly and jogging across the parking lot. 

“What’s wrong?” Scott asks, brows pressed together. 

“Nothing,” Stiles says. “Go ahead.”

“Alright,” Scott says and then he’s trailing after Allison. 

Stiles is frozen to the spot, stuck in place by every last instinct screaming at him to run. In his mind, his cheek grates over cement and he can smell the wet dirt in the treads of Gerard’s boot as it slowly presses on his face. 

Gerard’s voice, mean and hard, echoes through his mind, “You run with wolves? You won’t mind getting a little bloody then.” 

A boot to the ribs followed by a wet crunch. Erica’s muffled scream. The glimmer of tears on Boyd’s cheeks. 

“Stiles,” Isaac says, hand hovering between them. His face is screwed up, eyes too knowing. “What can I do?”

“Get me out of here,” Stiles gasps, reaching out with his good arm and grasping Isaac like he’s a lifeline. He clings too hard, he can tell, but Isaac just reels him a little closer. 

“Come on,” Danny says from beside them. “I’ll drive.”

Through the mercy of God, Danny and Isaac get Stiles into Danny’s silver sedan and out of the parking lot in under a minute. Stiles breathes woodenly, trying not to completely lose it. 

“Sorry,” Isaac says softly to Danny. “I just panicked. I’ve never seen Stiles like this.”

“I have,” Danny replies simply, meeting Stiles’ eyes in the rearview mirror. “It’s cool. Stiles doesn’t live far from me.”

Stiles feels like a bug beneath a microscope in the face of Danny’s dark eyes. 

“I just felt like—like I needed to get him out,” Isaac continues. 

“It’s cool,“ Danny says again. 

“Let me out,” Stiles burbles, hand pressed to his mouth. 

He throws up in the gutter of 7-11, still half in Danny’s car. When he sits up again, Danny is holding a half-full Evian bottle over his shoulder, eyes ahead. Isaac is crowded against the passenger door, crumpled like a napkin. He’s breathing in this funny, twitchy little motions. Like a rabbit. 

Stiles swishes the water around his mouth, spitting the stringy bile out in the gutter. He leans his head against the door frame and wishes he could rinse himself down the gutter with his puke. 

“Do you want this back?” He asks, rattling the water bottle just to be obnoxious. His voice is rough, scored by the vomit. His shoulder hurts from the retching. 

“Are you serious?” Danny asks, raising an eyebrow but meeting his eyes in the rearview. “Just pour it out if you’re not going to drink it.” 

“The Mahealani family washes the gutters with Evian,” Stiles says, watching the water sluice down the road. “I can walk from here. I gotta go back for my Jeep.” 

“Buckle up, Stiles,” Danny says. He turns then to look at Stiles. “I’m in the mood for a macchiato and you’re buying it for me. As payment for driving you six blocks.”

Stiles knows stalling for time when he hears it. He’s grateful and irritated at his own gratefulness in even turns. 

“Don’t forget the water bottle,” Isaac says, voice shaky. His lips crook into a brittle smile.

“Good point,” Danny says. He turns ahead and turns his blinker on. “Buckle up.”

***

Gerard is gone when they pull back into the parking lot and Stiles releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. They dropped Isaac off after Starbucks, his own macchiato in hand. Danny’s been quiet, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel along with the music on the radio. 

“So, Allison’s grandfather,” Danny says after he’s pulled into the parking space beside Roscoe. “He’s the one who has been leaving bruises on you. He’s why you freaked out in the mall.”

“No,” Stiles says. He sighs heavily and punches the bridge of his nose before he turns to look at Danny. “He’s never even met me. But he’s—Danny. Danny, that man is dangerous. Be careful around him.” 

“What are you mixed up in?” Danny asks, quiet like he thinks Stiles will bolt if he’s too loud. 

“Nothing you need to worry about,” Stiles says. He unbuckles and puts his hand on the handle. “Thanks for the rescue. I’ll see you around.”

“Later,” Danny says. His mouth is pursed and he’s clenching the steering wheel. 

Stiles is rounding the hood of Danny’s car when he hears Danny’s window roll down. Danny’s got his elbow hanging out the window and his phone is in his hand. 

“Tell me your number,” Danny says. 

“I thought you’d be able to resist the Stilinski charm until at least college,” Stiles says. His shoulder is beginning to throb. 

“Very funny,” Danny says, sneering a little. “Come on. Number.”

Danny sends Stiles a text immediately and watches Stiles enter him as a contact. 

“I’m assuming there’s a reason you want my digits,” Stiles says, leaning against the Jeep. “Aside from the growing summer romance building between us.”

“If you need help, ask for it. If you need help with something you can’t tell Scott, call me,” Danny says, cutting through Stiles’ bullshit. He’s incredibly handsome in the light of the setting sun. “You’re smart, Stiles. Don’t drown when there’s life rafts around.”

With that, Danny reverses neatly and speeds off into the evening. Stiles leans against his own passenger door for a long time, exhausted from the day. He has a myriad of unread texts from Scott and Derek. He convinces his body to crawl into the driver’s seat and then he scrolls through them. 

Scott is concerned but not pushing the matter. Maybe he doesn’t know to push. Derek only sent one text, inviting the Stilinski’s to dinner and instructing Stiles to pick up dessert. 

Stiles shoots his dad a simple text about meeting at the Hale’s and heads to the grocery store. He holds Gerard in the back of his mind, contemplating his time in the Argent basement like one worries a split lip. He is hyper aware of black SUVs and his heart falters each time he sees one. Stiles parks as close as he can to the entrance of the grocery store. 

Gerard is waiting for him when he exits the store. Time slows and Stiles feels the ground drop out from under him. He barely keeps hold of the pie he got for dessert. 

“What do you want?” Stiles asks from three parking spaces down, forcing his voice to be steady. There are people all around them but Stiles knows Gerard doesn’t care. 

“I want to talk, Stiles,” Gerard says, raising his hands as a gesture of good faith. “See, I thought I had you pegged. I thought you were playing the goofball teen jester as I, myself, play a nice, doddering grandfather. I was certain you were a beta.”

Stiles stays quiet, waits for the danger. 

“But your sling has shown me the truth,” Gerard continues. “I could find understanding for a beta loyal to a wolf pack. But another human? A human claiming fealty to beasts? It’s backwards.”

“At least they don’t pretend,” Stiles shoots back. “They own the fact that they’re monsters. You hide behind a code you don’t even follow.”

“And what would you know of codes?” Gerard asks, taking a step forward. 

“I know your daughter broke it when she massacred the Hale pack,” Stiles says. His phone buzzes in his pocket. “I know something else too.”

“And what might that be?” Gerard asks casually. He rests his hand on his belt loop and Stiles wonders if being shot would restart the time loop. 

“I know you’re dying,” Stiles says. “You’re about to kick the can. Bite the dust. Shuffle off your mortal coil—“

“And how,” Gerard interrupts, gritting his teeth. “Would you know that?”

“I know all kinds of shit,” Stiles says, advancing. Anger bubbles in him and makes him to brave. “I know about the Demon Wolf. I know about what you did to him. I know about that Round Table knock-off sword you carry around like a LARPer.”

“And what will you do with your infinite knowledge, witch?” Gerard asks, stepping up to meet Stiles. 

“You’re going to trip one day,” Stiles says, teeth bared. He reaches out and jabs Gerard square in the chest with the pie. “And the Hale pack will be there to step on your back.”

“Mighty words for a welp like you,” Gerard sneers, lifting his chin. “Can you back up that threat, young man?”

“I can back it up,” Stiles says. “More than you can. Or—uh—are you going to shoot the Sheriff’s son in the grocery store parking lot?”

Gerard takes a measured step back, frowning deeply. He looks over Stiles’ shoulder for just a moment and then he meets Stiles’ eyes again. 

“I don’t like to let my ego get the best of me, Stiles,” Gerard says solemnly. “It’s a useless trait to have, pride. If you walk tall and carry a big stick, you don’t need to boast. To answer your question, I’m not going to shoot the Sheriff’s son in a parking lot.”

Gerard leans forward, smiling wide and sharp. He puts his finger on Stiles’ chest and taps his shoulder roughly. It’s all Stiles can do not to cry out.

“I’m going to shoot him somewhere quiet and private with no witnesses. Then, I’ll cleave him in half with my knock-off sword,” Gerard continues, breathing harder. “And then I’ll burn his pack and finish my daughters’ work. Follow-through is  _ essential _ , Stiles.” 

Gerard leaves then, striding off into the dark. Stiles watches him go and, only when he sees three SUVs peel out of the parking lot, unlocks his Jeep, sets his pie on the seat and then throws up again. 

***

“You look like shit,” Cora says, raising one eyebrow as she opens the door. “You smell worse. Give me that pie before it stinks like you.”

“Cora,” Derek chides, coming up behind her. His face is already pinched when he catches sight of Stiles. “What happened to you?”

“Gerard Argent happened,” Stiles says, handing Cora the pie. His throat choked up as soon as he saw Cora and now he has tears watering in his eyes. “And I think my allergies are acting up. Lots of  _ this _ bulls—Oh, hey, dad.”

“You broke your arm?” His dad asks immediately. “What the hell? Who is Gerard Argent?”

“Not broken,” Stiles says. Derek reaches in the neck of his shirt and curves his hand carefully around Stiles’ shoulder. Black veins wind up his arm and Stiles leans into his hand. “Just landed wrong.”

Peter lurks darkly in the entrance to the sitting room. His eyes glint blue when they meet Stiles’ and Stiles feels the tears welling up in his eyes spill over. 

“Oh, Stiles,” his dad says, crossing the small gap between them and embracing him. Derek sidesteps both of them and closes the door behind them. 

“I’m fine,” Stiles says, patting his dad’s back. He is. His body is just crashing from its adrenaline rush. “I’m so good it’s stupid.”

“You got one thing right,” his dad murmurs, running his hand over Stiles’ scalp. “Who is Gerard?”

“Let’s discuss it in the study, Sheriff,” Laura says. She’s wearing a pink tracksuit and fuzzy slippers. Stiles’ gets a spark of joy at the sight of a powerful Alpha wearing Juicy Couture. 

“I should be there,” Stiles says, smearing his tears on his dad’s canvas jacket. “When you tell him.”

“No,” Laura says when his dad hesitates. Her face is concerned and she reaches over his dad’s shoulder to stroke her hand over his head. “Derek and Cora spent a lot of time on dinner. Go tuck in and after we can discuss Gerard.”

“If you say so, Alpha,” Stiles says. His dad lets go, thinking hard about something and Stiles watches them head towards the back of the house.

Derek is there to fill their void and he sets his hand back under Stiles’ shirt. Peter’s gone from the doorway when Stiles looks again and he lets Derek lead him to the dining room. 

Cora is pulling out a chair at the head of the table when he and Derek cross the threshold and she waves him into it with a dramatic swoop of her hand. 

“Sit, wimpy human, and be amazed at our culinary success,” Cora says, fanning a napkin into his lap. Derek sits beside him, on his bad side. 

“It looks like you guys were possessed by the ghost of Martha Stewart,” Stiles says, managing a joke. His shoulder feels way better and his tears have finally dried up. He looks suspiciously at Cora and she smiles reluctantly and rolls her eyes. “Wait. Cora? Is that you or Martha in there?”

“Water or wine?” Cora asks curtly, brandishing a crystal goblet at him. 

“Wine? I want wine,” Stiles says, perking up. “I haven’t had wine in—“

“Perhaps water,” Peter says silkily, sliding into the room. “I’m led to believe human stomachs are delicate. Pain medication doesn’t tend to pair with red.”

“Peter, you never fail to disappoint,” Stiles says, meeting his eyes. Peter takes a purposeful seat at the left hand of the head of the table. “Nobody’s got a Coke around here? This  _ is  _ still America.”

“You want to drink soda with coq au vin?” Derek asks, smiling a little. He pulls his hand out of Stiles’ shirt and then swipes his palm over Stiles’ neck. “You’re a monster.”

Gerard’s words echo back to him and whatever happens to his scent makes all three wolves freeze.

“Argent really scared you,” Cora says, eyes focused on her water pouring. “That day in the mall—“

“Let’s just…bury our feelings in good food,” Stiles says. “I’ve got my, uh—what would you call this? A hors d’oeuvres?”

“Water is not a hors d’oeuvres,” Cora sighs. She sets the goblet in front of him. “The canapés are though.”

“I’ll get them,” Derek says, standing smoothly from the table. “Cora, you can grab the soup.”

“Sure thing, Der,” she says and Stiles’ smiles at their casual closeness. 

Peter meets his eyes once they’re alone and Stiles laughs helplessly, rubbing a hand over his face. 

“Long night,” Peter says, balancing a fork on its end between his index finger and the table. He keeps his eyes on the candle before him. “How are you handling it?”

“Well, I have thrown up twice today. I got friendship-kidnapped by Danny and Isaac. Cornered outside a grocery store,” Stiles says. He closes his eyes for a moment. “I’m doing just peachy.”

“No need to be catty,” Peter says, tilting his chin up a little. “I’m being polite.”

“Save it,” Cora says, swanning into the dining room with a serving tray on her hip. 

She sets a bowl in front of Stiles first and then Peter. Then she puts the last two across from Peter and beside Stiles. Then, she sits with one knee pulled up to her chest. Her hair curtains off her face and she stares at the bowl in front of her in silence. 

Derek follows close behind her and he sets a platter of canapés on either side of the dining table. He sits by Stiles and tucks a napkin over one leg. Cora and Derek both look to Stiles and he starts a little at their intense attention. 

“What?” He asks, checking his face to puke flecks. 

“Taste it first,” Cora says, looking back at her steaming bowl. 

Stiles does, scooping a spoonful of the broth up. Thankfully, the soup is good. Really good.

“Woah,” he says, sipping another spoonful. “This is great.”

“Yeah,” Cora says, tucking her hair behind her ear. 

“Thanks, Stiles,” Derek says. 

The rest of the food is equally good and Laura and John rejoin them in time for the main dish. Dinner is a little stilted but after nearly a year of breaking bread together, they muddle through.

After pie, Laura and John meet eyes and John sets a hand on Stiles’ arm. 

“Look, I think I might go freshen up,” Stiles says, standing abruptly. “Mop up some sweat so I’m less offensive to the general wolfy public.” 

“I second that idea,” Peter says, standing as well. “I’ll get you some new clothing.”

“Do you own anything that doesn’t show a fourth of your chest?” Stiles asks, bickering for show. His hands shake at the idea of Peter holding him. 

“I’m sure I can find something,” Peter says. 

“Alright,” his dad says. “Meet us on the back porch. We can discuss what happened tonight.”

“Sure,” Stiles says. He waits for his dad and Laura to head towards the back door before he follows Peter. 

He leads Stiles down the hall and up a set of stairs that curls around what must be the chimney from the sitting room fireplace. At the top of the stairs, there’s a heavy door with a piece of paper taped to it. Peter snatches it with a sigh but not before Stiles reads it. In a delicate scrawl, someone’s written  _ The Princess Tower _ .

“Very funny, Derek,” Peter mutters over his shoulder and then he unlocks the door. 

The room is pristine, sparse and empty like a hotel room. Bookshelves line the walls and they’re stuffed full of colorful tomes and hand-bound books. There’s a couch and several arm chairs but no bed. 

“Too bad this isn’t your place,” Stiles says, twisting his hands in the hem of his shirt. “That one purple-red sweater would be perfect.”

“The word is maroon,” Peter smiles, pressing the side of his index finger to his own mouth to shut Stiles up. He reaches out, snagging the hem Stiles is stretching, and hauls Stiles closer. Stiles allows this, curling into Peter without thought. 

His eyes water again and he sighs into Peter’s armpit. 

“He got close to you,” Peter says softly. He scratches his fingers over Stiles’ hair and presses his nose to it. “Close enough to touch.”

“Close enough,” Stiles agrees. He pulls back, wiping his eyes with the heels of his palms. “Alright. Shirt time.”

Peter collects a UCLA sweatshirt from a nearby coat rack and then he sets to untangling Stiles from his sling. They make eye contact for a moment and then Peter tears the tainted shirt in half. It falls down Stiles’ arms and he grins when he realizes he’s hard. 

“Tonight?” Stiles asks, tilting closer to Peter. He mouths his next words, “I miss you.”

Peter nods, tracing his finger over the blooming, purple bruise on Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles reaches up, catching Peter’s mouth with his and they melt together just for a moment. 

Then, Peter draws back and carefully loops the sweatshirt over Stiles’ head. He helps feed Stiles’ arm through the sleeve and into the sling and then leans down to press a fierce, messy kiss to Stiles’ mouth. He pulls back, licking his own lips, and then he freezes.

“What?” Stiles asks with a snort, looking up at him. Peter is staring beyond him, mouth canted just enough to show how upset he is. Stiles turns slowly to look where he’s looking. 

Derek is in the doorway. 

“Hey, buddy,” Stiles says warily. 

“Derek—,” Peter starts and then Derek turns on his heel and stomps down the stairs. Peter follows, taking the stairs quickly. 

“Fuck,” Stiles breathes, exhaustion settling over his bones. “Okay.”

He nearly trips over the stairs in his haste and he makes it out onto the back porch just in time to see Derek tear off his shirt and sprint into the woods. Peter drops his red button-up on the porch and charges after him. When Stiles turns, Laura and his dad are watching them with wide eyes. 

“Are they—,” Laura starts, rising from her seat a little. 

“They’re fine. Little—uh—They’re having a discussion,” Stiles says, collapsing in a seat beside them. He puts his face into his good hand. “A shirtless discussion in the woods at night.”

“Let’s just put a pin in all that,” his dad says after a beat. “Tell us what happened today.”

“Allison’s grandpa was waiting by my Jeep after practice,” Stiles says. He turns sideways and slings a leg over the wicker arm of his chair. “And I hung out with some friends until he left. But he must have followed me to the grocery store because he was waiting for me when I came out.”

“You can’t be alone anymore,” his dad says. “You need a tail.”

“Is that a pun?” Cora asks, pushing open the back door. She crawls up on the arm of Stiles’ chair and fits a leg on either side of his body. Her hand is cool when she slips it under his shirt to steal pain from his shoulder and he smiles lazily up at her. 

“Not a pun,” John says. 

“No puns when we plot,” Laura says, nudging the Sheriff with her foot. 

“It wasn’t a—Boy. Where did you find these guys?” John asks Stiles, cracking his first smile of the night. “They’ve got the same terrible sense of humor you’ve got, kid.”

“Birds of a feather,” Laura says loftily. “Or maybe I should say wolves.”

John groans and Stiles smiles despite the ball of nerves in his stomach. He wonders what Derek and Peter are doing. 

“I can tail Stiles,” Cora says. She inhales slowly. “I’m ready to be out in public.”

“I’m sure Derek and Peter won’t mind taking shifts,” Laura says. 

“Well, now. I don’t know—,” John starts.

“It’s gonna look pretty weird—,” Stiles says at the same time. 

“Two grown-ups can’t watch Stiles play lacrosse,” Cora says, muffled scenting Stiles’ neck. She’s bent like an orangutan to be able to fit her chin against his neck. 

“I could just quit lacrosse,” Stiles says, leaning back against her. Cora is rarely this touchy-feely and Stiles knows he must have smelled terrified if she’s hanging on him this much. 

“Maybe I’ll join your lacrosse team.” 

“I’m sure Coach would be thrilled to have you,” Stiles says seriously. “He is many things but sexist is not one of those things. 

“Well, that sounds settled,” Laura says. “You two are pack. We take your safety very seriously. John, I think you need an escort too.”

“Look, this guy is a human still,” John says, leaning back in his chair. “I’ll keep a deputy around me. It’ll be alright.”

“I’d feel better if you let us keep an eye on you,” Laura says. “I know you aren’t as immersed in our pack as Stiles is but you are an extension of us—of me.”

John is a little gobsmacked and Stiles can almost see the cogs whirring in his head. Stiles sits up, leaning away from Cora to meet his dad’s eye. 

“Laura is our Alpha, dad,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “Our  _ Godfather _ .”

“Huh,” his dad says, putting a hand behind his head. “Interesting.”

“Often the pack bond is a conscious choice,” Laura says. She smiles and the world brightens a little. “But sometimes it’s inherent. I can feel both of you.”

“ _ Feel  _ us?” John asks, squinting. 

Laura presses a fist to her chest and then she reaches out and presses it to John’s. 

“Right there. From me to you,” she says softly, wonderingly. Her eyes are a little misty. “I feel our pack bond with every breath. I suppose the apple doesn’t fall from the tree, John. Stiles didn’t know his worth to me either. I claim you. You’re mine.”

Stiles watches the weight of Laura’s oath settle over his father. The sincerity she says her words with is overwhelming to Stiles’ and she’s not even directing it at her. John blinks twice, chin down, and then he nods. 

Derek breaks the tender moment by storming out of the woods, muddy and bleeding and sans-pants. His briefs are just as dirty as his feet and he stalks passed them all without a word. 

Peter follows a moment later, much bloodier. He’s lost his shoes but kept his pants and he collects his shirt from the porch with a sigh. 

“Should I be worried?” Laura asks, tilting her head to the side. 

“Peace reigns once again,” Peter says, smiling through split lips. “Sometimes, Laura-Loo, the only way out is through.”

A rivulet of blood trickles down between his pecs and Stiles internally sighs when he catches himself following it with his eyes. 

“Are you heading out?” Laura asks, tucking her hands into her sleeves. 

“I think that was enough excitement for me tonight,” Peter says. “Dinner was lovely, Cora. Very well done.”

“Thanks, Uncle,” she says. She unravels from around Stiles and gives Peter a hug despite his gore and dirt. 

Peter’s breath catches a little and his face softens. It’s almost unbearable to look at the vulnerable fold of his eyebrows. 

***

When Stiles finally gets back into his bedroom, he sinks down on the bed and presses the neck of Peter’s sweater to his nose. He inhales, finding a stupid amount of comfort in Peter’s smell. He sits there for a long time before he realizes he’s being watched. 

On his nightstand, hiding behind a tissue box, is a wisp. 

Stiles looks around then, searching with purpose, and he finds two more. One spins in lazy circles on his rug and the other is stepping carefully from letter to letter on his keyboard. 

“Hi,” he says, leaning down to see the wisp on his nightstand better. It shies away, tucking itself away a little more. “You don’t need to be scared. I won’t hurt you.”

It creeps out a little, reaching out for him. He holds out his finger and it waves his hand away. Then it reaches out again towards his bad arm. 

He leans so his fingers are within its reach and it grasps his middle finger in both hands. There’s a strange bubbling feeling in his arm and it courses up into his shoulder. There’s a grinding feeling and then no pain whatsoever. 

The little wisp drops onto its bottom, bracing its little hands on its little knees and then it falls all the way back and splays its limbs out. It’s very still. 

“You healed me,” Stiles says, slapping a hand over his forehead. “And now you’re dead. I killed you. My first little guy—dead.”

The wisp rolls over into its stomach then, and pillows its head on its folded arms. 

“Not dead,” Stiles cheers. “Just tired. Okay. Do you need food? Can you eat food? Is there a mouth under that hat?”

Something white waves on his desk and when he looks over, the second wisp is waving a card around. Aleksy’s card. He’d dropped it there on the desk after he’d unpacked all the clothing. 

“You want me to call him?” Stiles asks. He looks at the tired wisp and then crosses to take the card from the second one. Flipping the card reveals a neatly penned second phone number. A personal number. “That feels like a big step. Also, it feels like Peter would be jealous.”

The wisp is not listening and already back on the keyboard, this time hopping across multiple letters. When it lands, it pinwheels its arms. Stiles is completely charmed. 

He dials the number. 

_ “Hello?” _ Aleksy’s accented voice rolls through the phone. 

“Hi,” Stiles says. He scratches the back of his head. “It’s Stiles.”

_ “Ah. What can I do for you tonight?” _ Aleksy asks. 

“I got a visit from some of your wisps. And I had a busted shoulder but one of them fixed it and now they’re kind of—uh—sleeping? I think?” Stiles stays, crossing back to peer at the wisp. 

_ “Do you have honey in the house?”  _ Aleksy asks. 

“Yeah, I think so,” Stiles replies. “Do they eat honey?”

_ “In the loosest definition of the word,”  _ Aleksy says. Stiles can hear a hint of a smile in his voice.  _ “Put a tablespoon of honey onto a saucer. Put the saucer beside the wisp. She will take it from there.”  _

“Vague but appreciated,” Stiles says. He drops the sling on the floor and flips back on the bed. “How are you?”

_ “I am well. Apologies, I’m in the middle of someone right now. I must get off the phone. I’m being rather rude,”  _ Aleksy says and Stiles hears a muffled groan in the background.  _ “Have a pleasant evening, Mieczysław.” _

Then, the line disconnects and Stiles stares at the ceiling for a long moment. 

“Was he fucking them or killing them?” He asks the ceiling. The ceiling offers no answer. 

Stiles drags himself upright again and fetches a little plate with a spoonful of honey on it. He sets it beside the wisp who rolls over until she’s at the edge of the plate. Then, she heaves herself over the edge and lays spread-eagle in the middle of the honey puddle. 

“Well,” Stiles says. “I will just leave you to it.”

He showers, relishing the use of both arms. It’s only when he exits the shower that he realizes he’s completely healed. All the bruises and hickeys and finger shaped bruises have been healed and, aside from the ghoul’s scars, Stiles is just pale skin and moles. He traces the skin where Peter’s bite usually is. He doesn’t allow himself to miss it. 

He makes his way back to his bedroom shirtless and he finds his dad sitting in his computer chair, waiting for him. 

“Hey, pops,” Stiles says, slinging his towel around his neck. His dad’s eyes catch on the wicked scarves curving over his side and then slide up to Stiles’ face. 

“Shoulder feeling better?” His dad asks, gesturing at the sling on the ground. 

“You’re not going to believe this but there’s these little—,” Stiles stops, peering around for the missing wisps. “Huh. Guess they took off. There are these little magical guys called wisps. They’re like four inches tall. One of them whammied my shoulder and I’m back in action.” 

“Just like that?” His dad asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Just like that,” Stiles says, raising his arms and turning. He hangs his towel up and pulls a t-shirt over his head. “What brings you to Stiles-town?”

“Just thinking about what Laura said earlier,” John says. “I don’t think I understood what pack meant. It’s more than just a group of people.”

“It’s more,” Stiles agrees. He shifts on his feet. “I love you. I don’t say it enough.”

“It makes me itchy when you’re serious,” his dad says. “Gives me hives.” 

“I can relate,” Stiles says, smiling. He feels old in this child’s bedroom, standing in front of his father. In his time, they were always loyal and always loving but there was always a dark emptiness standing in the room with them. 

Maybe the Hales can fill that emptiness. 

“I love you too, kid,” his dad says. He stands and pulls him in for a rare hug. Stiles lets himself lean against his dad’s chest and he closes his eyes to breathe in the familiar smell of gun oil and Old Spice. “We’re going to pull through this Argent mess. Laura has a security company coming over tomorrow.”

Stiles thinks of the last time he and his father installed security cameras and Japanese blades flash through his mind. Allison’s dark hair, fluttering in the breeze. Lydia, crouched and screaming. He squeezes his eyes closed against the memories and holds his dad just a little longer. 

***

Stiles wakes up to Peter sliding his body under the blanket and a hand around his waist. Peter’s hand is cold as he slides it over Stiles’ stomach. Stiles sighs, lifting his head so Peter can get an arm under there as well. Peter pulls Stiles closer, close enough that he can set his chin in the crook of Stiles’ neck. 

“What happened with Derek?” Stiles asks, voice thickened by sleep. 

“He’s fine,” Peter says, rubbing his cheek against Stiles’ neck. “He won’t say anything.” 

“I find that hard to believe,” Stiles says, tuning a little to look at Peter. 

Peter takes the opportunity to lean up and catch Stiles’ mouth with his. Stiles cranes further, letting out a soft noise when Peter’s hand slips down the length of his stomach. They kiss, lazy and slow, for long enough that Stiles’ neck protests. 

“Let me turn over,” Stiles murmurs and Peter bites the edge of his jaw before manually moving him. 

“Your shoulder is better,” Peter says. Then he bites Stiles’ lower lip.

“Wisps healed it,” Stiles says, smiling smugly. “They healed everything.”

“Everything?” Peter asks, hand sliding down to trace the shiny scars from the ghoul attack. 

“All the bruises. Hickeys. I’m tabla rasta, baby,” Stiles says incorrectly just to mess with Peter. 

“Tabula rasa,” Peter corrects, rolling his eyes. Then, he squints. “And I think you knew that.”

“Where do you wanna bite me first?” Stiles asks, lifting his chin and looking at Peter through his lashes. “My neck is purely driven snow now.”

“I dread the idea of being predictable,” Peter says, moving so he’s caging Stiles against the bed with an arm on either side. 

Stiles sucks in an excited breath, bites his lower lip. Peter opens his mouth slowly, revealing wolfish teeth. Stiles turns his head, reaching up above his head to brace his hands against the headboard. Peter drags his tongue over Stiles’ carotid, fluttering a kiss over the bead of his pulse. Then he moves lower, scraping a fang lightly over Stiles’ collarbone. 

Stiles arches beneath him, pushing his sternum out, and is rewarded with a flick of tongue over his nipple. Peter’s in complete control of his own body, balanced in an extended plank. Stiles bites his lips to keep from moaning and Peter moves lower. 

“If you bite my dick I’m wolfsbaning your ass to Hell and back,” Stiles says, voice cracking. 

“I use that too much to damage it,” Peter says smugly. 

He kisses the hollow below Stiles’ rib cage and trails his teeth down until he’s licking over the crest of Stiles’ hip. His tongue slips into the crease between Stiles’ thigh and his groin and it lights up nerves Stiles’ didn’t know existed. He reaches down to grip Peter’s hair and splays his legs open. Peter’s mouth is hot and wicked and Stiles is so very ready to be eaten. 

***

Peter slips the sling over Stiles’ head before he leaves in the morning.

“Let Gerard underestimate you,” Peter murmurs into Stiles’ hair. “And please. Put on the pendant, little pig. As a last resort.”

“I will,” Stiles says. Peter huffs a laugh into his scalp. “I will!”

“Good,” Peter says. “We should also deal with our infestation soon.” 

“God, how did I forget about the vampires?” Stiles asks, looping an arm around Peter’s neck and pulling him in to smack a kiss on his cheek. “The fucking vampires, dude. Tonight?”

“Tonight is soon,” Peter says, raising an eyebrow. 

“No time like the present, Petey,” Stiles says. 

“Good-bye, pest,” Peter replies. “Try not to gain any new murderous enemies while I’m gone.”

He uses the front door to leave and Stiles’ sees him out. Derek is leaned against Laura’s Camaro, arms crossed and eyebrows knitted together. Stiles watches Peter swan past him to his own expensive car. Derek doesn’t look at him and Stiles sighs. 

“We can discuss it,” Stiles says eventually and Derek’s brow relaxes a millimeter. “But only after coffee.” 

Derek wordlessly stands and walks around to sit in the driver seat. Stiles’ jams his feet into a pair of house slippers, snags his keys, and then he’s trodding down his driveway to Derek. Peter waves effortlessly as he drives away. 

Derek is silent as Stiles directs him to Starbucks and then as Stiles’ directs him out of town to Beacon Vista, a spot that overlooks the town. The radio is playing some top 40 that Stiles’ has been tired of for years and he drinks his coffee methodically. 

“Alright,” Stiles says. He climbs out of the Camaro and sits on a picnic table facing the town, putting his feet on the bench. 

Derek follows quietly, sitting on the bench by Stiles’ feet with his back to Stiles. 

“Ask,” Stiles says, pulling a cake pop out of the paper bag and offering it to Derek. Derek takes it with the care one would accept a live rattlesnake. “You want to know about me and Peter. Just do it.”

“What about him attracts you?” Derek asks, shoulders tense. 

“At first? He was just willing. Now?” Stiles pauses, considering. “Now, I can be myself. There’s zero judgement. I can be as crazy or needy or weird as I want and he doesn’t even bat an eye.”

“We all accept you, Stiles,” Derek says, turning to look up at him. “Me, Laura. Cora. We all accept you.”

“The good parts, maybe,” Stiles says. He takes a bite of cake pop. “But I can’t tell Laura to fuck off and die. I can’t fight you just to feel in control. I have--I am dealing with a lot. A lot of dark shit. And sometimes I need someone to take the reins.” 

“The visions?” Derek asks. “The visions are dark?”

“They’re not visions,” Stiles corrects. “But yeah. I have lived a life of--I’ve killed people. I’ve pushed swords into people and felt the blade scrape their spines. I’ve made mistakes that ruined lives, Der.” 

“But it wasn’t really you,” Derek says. He grips his cake pop stick hard enough to bend it. “It wasn’t real.”

“It was real. It was something that did happen. After a series of choices and mistakes I made. I did that, Derek,” Stiles says. He finishes his cake pop and leans down to hug his legs. He presses his thumb into the mouth-shaped bruise Peter left on his inner thigh. “I lived it.” 

“You’re changing it though,” Derek says. “It won’t be like that.” 

“No. But I still--all of that is still inside me. I still carry it,” Stiles says. He’s walking a fine line between lying and honesty. “Peter helps me carry it.”

“I can help you,” Derek says, turning fulls towards Stiles. “I can help. And you don’t have to sleep with me.”

“I want Peter,” Stiles says. Derek couldn’t know the terrible things Stiles needs and look at him the same way. Peter gives it back twice as bad. It works. “I want to be with him. I care about you, you know that. I trust you. But I don’t want you to know that side of me. It’s gross.” 

“Nothing you could do would be gross to me,” Derek says, frowning. “You’re saving our town. Whatever you need--whatever you need me to do to you, I can do it. I can be what you need.” 

“What did Peter say to you last night? What made you keep it a secret?” Stiles asks, trying to unravel this in his head. 

“He said--he said he loved you,” Derek says, looking away finally. 

A clever lie. Peter knows just where to strike. 

“You would be eaten alive by guilt if you helped me like Peter does,” Stiles says finally. “You’re the good guy, Der. Good guys don’t do what Peter and I do.”

“Stiles--,” Derek starts but Stiles presses on. 

“You’d do it because I need it and you’re trying to help. And it would weigh on you. And you’d end up feeling like shit and not being able to look me in the eyes,” Stiles says gently. “But Peter needs it too. He needs it like I need it. And it works. There’s no judging between us and it’s what makes us able to fight for Beacon Hills.” 

Stiles stands then, unable to keep still any longer. He crosses to the edge of the vista and looks out at the town. The early morning sunlight has tinged the world in blush and Beacon Hills almost looks beautiful. The Hale preserve borders the northern side of town Stiles’ finds peace in the lush, green forest. 

“I’m going to keep everyone safe, Derek,” Stiles says, turning back. Derek is standing now, watching him with an indescribable expression and clutching a cake pop. “All of them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has reached the mid way point. It will probably be around ten chapters. Next chapter is Vampire Gay Bar 2: Electric Boogalo. Also more Danny.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: Canon level violence, animal butchering.

The pendant is always cold. No matter how long Stiles wears it, it’s like it’s been sitting in the shade on cement. It rests on his sternum, four inches below the hollow of his throat. Stiles looks at it lying against his bare skin, a small lump of polished stone and silver wire. It’s a constant weight around his neck that someone cares if he dies. Even if that someone is Peter. 

Derek sticks around after their talk and he’s slumped in an armchair, staring out the front window, when Stiles comes back down from getting dressed. He’s wearing a tamer outfit of Aleksy’s, blue cotton shirt and sand colored chinos. He adds a blue canvas jacket that isn’t Aleksy-approved but it takes the outfit from fussy to normal.

He’s still looping his arm into his sling when he comes downstairs and Derek raises an inquisitive eyebrow at him. 

“Little fairy dude healed it,” Stiles says, waving his hand around. “I’m good as new.”

“Useful,” Derek says simply. 

He laces his fingers over his toned stomach and looks out the window. He looks pensive, artfully sculpted and brooding, and Stiles feels a rush of warmth. His brain knows this isn’t his Derek. But it’s hard to keep the two apart. Especially when this Derek is so morose.

“Hey, let’s do something fun,” Stiles says. “There’s a game release today and they’re doing tournaments at the GameStop. We can go practice being social people and I get a new game.” 

“That only sounds fun for you,” Derek says, standing from the chair. “I hate the mall.” 

“I hate the mall too,” Stiles says. “Way too many people around. And again,  _ practice  _ being social.” 

“Yeah,” Derek says, he looks at his feet and sticks his hands in his pockets. “I always see people I went to school with. They always have...condolences.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. He’s quiet for a moment. “Well, this is perfect.”

“How?” Derek asks, peeking at Stiles from under his eyebrows. There’s a ghost of a smile in his eyes. 

“I hate crowds. People avoid you because of the whole growly, I-will-eat-you-if-you-look-at-me thing. You hate awkward small-talk. I dominate small-talk. I’m the  _ king _ of small-talk,” Stiles says. He bumps Derek with his shoulder. “Match made in heaven, my dude.”

“We could bring pretzels back to the girls,” Derek says. He jingles his keys in his pocket and shrugs. “Maybe hit the Cinnabon.”

“You’re always the idea guy,” Stiles says, patting Derek’s shoulder. “Let’s hit the road, buddy.”

The mall is, predictably, busy. 

Throngs of people meander, careless of their infringement on Stiles’ personal space. He finds himself tucked behind Derek’s broad shoulder. Derek cuts an impassive cleft in the crowds and Stiles steers him towards GameStop. There are three gaming stations set up and the show manager is explaining how the bracket system works. 

“Put your name on the list,” Stiles says urgently, nudging Derek closer to the manager. 

“What?” Derek asks, turning to scowl at Stiles. “I thought you were playing.”

“Der,” Stiles says, waving his arm in the sling. “I can’t. Not if I want to keep up my cover. If you lose, we buy the game and go. If you win? I get a limited edition poster.” 

“Why do you get the poster for my work?” Derek asks, mouth twisted. “I should get the poster.” 

“Seriously?” Stiles asks, smiling despite himself. “Fine. You get the poster.”

“Fine,” Derek says with a smug curl to his mouth. He signs his name on the sheet in a swirling, cursive flourish. 

Stiles leans against Derek’s shoulder, enjoying his warmth and the bubble of space he receives from everyone around them. They wait for Derek’s turn in a comfortable silence and Stiles is bouncing on his heels by the end of it. 

Derek is excellent once he understands how the controls work and he wipes the floor with his opponent. Heightened reflexes and speed lend themselves well to video games. 

The next round, Stiles hooks his good arm around Derek’s neck and feeds him combo moves. He cheers loudly and shrilly whenever Derek lands a hit and, by the time Derek is playing the finals, they’re both barely controlling their laughter. 

Derek takes the poster, some cheap little thing, with the reverence usually reserved for a holy relic. He doesn’t free it from its plastic sleeve until after they’ve purchased Stiles’ game and are making their way to the Cinnabon. 

“Who are these people?” Derek asks, head tilted. “What is this?”

_ “Gears of War _ , Der,” Stiles says, jostling closer so he can look at the poster closer. “The third one.”

“I have never heard of this in my entire life,” Derek says. He turns the poster like seeing it sideways might help him recognize something. 

“So, I can have the poster?” Stiles asks, spinning a little so he can look at Derek while he walks backwards. 

“No,” Derek says, steering Stiles around a bench with a hand fisted in his shirt. “It’s mine.”

“You don’t even know what the game is,” Stiles protests. “You know, this is a surprising side of you. Absolutely belligerent. Just a real rebel. Taking our—“

_ “My,” _ Derek interjects, grinning. 

“— _ Our  _ hard won prize and keeping it selfishly to yourself,” Stiles says. He’s still walking backwards and Derek is still guiding him. It feels metaphoric. “Maybe we can set up a timeshare. A custody thing. You got Christmas and Easter, I get Halloween.”

“Halloween?” Derek asks, actually laughing. “My heritage basically dictates that I get Halloween.”

“Uh, not so fast,” Stiles says, stopping them both. “It’s a constitutional right to separate church and state.” 

“Where does the church even enter the picture?” Derek asks, letting go of Stiles’ shirt. He smooths a hand over the wrinkles he’s made and his face changes minutely. “Is this Aleksy’s work?”

“A: Your ‘heritage’ is based on worshiping the moon who is also a lady from the Bible. B: It is. Have you met him?” Stiles asks, strangely greedy to know more about Aleksy’s relationship with the Hales.

“Peter shops there a lot. I’ve been a few times. This jacket, actually, is one of his,” Derek says. He opens it on the right side, revealing several charms stitched to the inner seam with red thread. “Do you have anything magical of his?”

“This,” Stiles says, pulling his pendant from his shirt with his thumb. 

“A witch’s knot,” Derek says, touching the pendant. “A classic symbol of protection.”

“Is Aleksy a witch?” Stiles asks.

“I’m not sure,” Derek says. “I don’t know him like Peter does.”

“He must be at least a little magical to be able to enchant stuff like he does,” Stiles says. They begin walking again. “On the other hand, magic is about intent. Werewolves can do simple magic.” 

“We can?” Derek asks, rolling his poster back up. He fits it carefully into the bag he’s carrying. 

“You guys helped me with the poultice on the runes,” Stiles says. “Alphas can take memories. You can turn into a wolf.”

“Well, I can’t,” Derek corrects. 

“Not yet,” Stiles says wryly and Derek can’t suppress the tiny, incredulous smile that blooms across his face. 

“Wow,” he says, sticking his hands in his pockets. “A full shift. My mom could do that.”

“I know,” Stiles says. 

“What don’t you know?” Derek asks, wrinkling his nose. 

“Well, actually. Laura said she can feel my dad and I through the pack bond. Can you?”

“Yes,” Derek says. He presses his fist to his chest. “I can feel you. And John.”

“What does it feel like?” Stiles asks, watching the expressions trickle of Derek’s face. Warmth, wonder, comfort. 

“It feels like a golden thread or rope. Some are stronger than others. My bond to Laura feels like it could pull a ship to shore,” Derek says. “Cora and I are still repairing our bond but it’s already very strong.”

“What happens when it’s stronger?” Stiles asks. 

“You can get impressions,” Derek says. “I can get imprints of Laura’s emotions. Usually just vague ones.”

“How about me?”

“When you’re really upset or really happy I can feel it,” Derek says. “When the ghoul attacked, I felt you before I heard you. I can feel your heightened emotions.”

“And Peter?” Stiles asks, tucking his hand into his pocket. The bag bounces on his thigh with each step.

“Peter hasn’t settled into our pack all the way,” Derek says. “He’s—he’s more thread than rope.” 

Stiles files that away for later.

“Tomorrow night is the full moon,” Derek says. He looks almost nervous. “Laura requests that you and your father join us at the Hale Estate.”

“Sure,” Stiles says easily. He can wrap up the vampire infestation tonight and go hang with his Hales tomorrow. 

“Isn’t that your friend?” Derek asks, staring across the mall corridor. “The one dating the Argent girl?”

“Oh,” Stiles says. Scott and Isaac are standing in the doorway of Bath and Bodyworks, peering inside. “Yes. Do you want to meet them?”

“Whatever,” Derek says. He looks mildly interested. 

“Well, come on, Cujo,” Stiles says, starting across the crowd. When he’s close enough he cups his hand around his mouth and calls, “Scotty!”

Scott turns, smiling already, and Isaac waves. 

“Hey, Stiles,” Scott says, meeting Stiles and pulling him in for a hug. “Where did you go yesterday? You missed meeting Ally’s grandpa.”

“I’m surprised Isaac didn’t say,” Stiles says, pulling back from the hug and fistbumping Isaac. 

“Not my place,” Isaac says, nervous eyes darting between them. 

“Are you guys picking up the new  _ Gears _ ?” Stiles asks, changing the subject. 

“Yes!” Scott says. He pulls his copy from his hoodie pocket. “And the girls are shopping for lotion sets or something.”

“It’s a scent profile,” Lydia corrects on cue, high heels clicking against the tile. She tilts her head and smiles winningly. “Hello, Stiles and hot company.”

“This is Derek,” Stiles says, gesturing to his wolfy friend. 

“Are all the Hales incredibly attractive?” Lydia asks, twining her hair around her finger. 

“So far? Absolutely,” Stiles answers, laughing. The tips of Derek’s ears turn red and Stiles leans against him so he can hide a little. “Girls, plural? Is Ally here?”

Derek tenses minutely. 

“Guess again,” Lydia says, glancing over her shoulder. “I managed to drag Erica out with me. She’s checking out now.” 

“Erica is here?” Stiles asks, smiling. He hadn’t planned on coordinating Derek and Erica meeting but he couldn’t be happier. He smiles back at Derek who has shrunk even more behind Stiles. “You’re going to love her, Der. Imagine a bombshell who is still a total badass. She and Cora would be terrifying together.”

“Our Erica?” Lydia asks, not unkindly. 

“Oh, undoubtedly,” Stiles answers. “Erica is….Well. She’s just epic.” 

The girl in question exits the store then. She’s in a gray sweatshirt and baggy jeans but her tired face lights up when she sees Stiles. The dark smudges under her eyes are a little worse today and Stiles hugs her a little tighter than he probably should. 

“Hey, Reyes,” he says, pulling back. “Looking good. You gotta meet my buddy.”

“Derek,” Derek says, reaching out a hand.

Erica flushes a precious pink and shakes his hand. 

“Hi,” she says, letting her hair hang around the sides of her face. “Nice to meet you. Stiles talks about you guys so much.” 

“It goes both ways,” Derek says, smiling his real smile. Erica’s eyes widen and Stiles grins at them. “You are in many of his stories, Erica.”

“All my favorite people in one place,” Stiles says. “Der, you just need to meet Boyd and you’ll have collected the entire set.”

“What about Danny?” Lydia asks, smirking a little evilly.

“What about Danny?” Stiles asks, bemused. 

“He and Jackson were partying last night and Danny spent like thirty minutes composing a text to you about meeting up,” Lydia says, raising her eyebrows. “Which he never sent, I’m guessing.”

“You and Danny?” Scott asks, looking between Lydia and Stiles. 

“No,” Stiles says quickly. He watches Erica’s face light up a little. “I’m not interested in starting anything with anyone right now. Danny is just helping me out.”

“Oh, he’s your dealer,” Lydia says. She rolls her eyes. “That’s not very interesting.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Stiles says, shrugging. That’s as good an excuse as any.“What are you guys up to next?” 

“Heading to Victoria’s Secret,” Lydia says, lifting her chin. She loops her arm in with Erica’s. “Then, Erica and I have a date with my home theater system.”

“ _ The Notebook _ ,” Erica says, sounding sad but looking a little thrilled. “I’ve never seen it.” 

“If you’re a bird,” Stiles says, shrugging. 

“I’m a bird,” Derek finishes and Stiles meets his eyes with a soft smile. 

His Lydia and Derek had bonded once over  _ The Notebook _ . It had been Laura’s favorite. 

“We should all hang soon,” Stiles says, turning back to the group. “A lake day or something.”

“Bathing suit season,” Lydia says with a gleeful glint in her eye. She tempers herself visibly and looks at Erica. “Forever 21 usually has their suits out by now. If you’re up to one more stop.”

Erica thinks about it for a moment and then she nods. 

“Maybe we can take a break after Victoria’s Secret,

though,” she says and Lydia nods, curls bouncing. 

“Perfect. These Loubs are trés trendy but not very comfortable,” Lydia responds. 

“Bye, Stiles,” Erica says, wiggling her fingers at him. “Nice to meet you, Derek.”

“Very nice,” Lydia purrs and Erica drags her away giggling. 

“Let’s do  _ Gears  _ tonight,” Scott says, smiling. “Isaac is coming over and we’re gonna switch off.”

“Sounds epic,” Stiles says. “I am busy tonight but I’ll hit you up when I’m free, my man.”

They all say their good-byes and then Derek and Stiles head towards the food court. 

“Peter met Allison,” Stiles says once they’ve been walking for a while. “Did he mention?”

“No,” Derek says. His face is a little sad now and Stiles bumps into him from the side. “He doesn’t talk to us much about his personal life. He’s around whenever we need him. But he just deflects us.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. His Peter is excessively chatty, verbally meandering through his day when he’s got Stiles in bed. “Well. I know he’s glad to have you guys.”

“In the beginning, I think he hated us,” Derek says. “Hated me.”

“He didn’t ever blame you,” Stiles says honestly. “He knew who did it, Der.” 

“He talks to you,” Derek says. He shifts a little awkwardly and then rearranges his face into an expression of determination. “I’m glad. You both need someone to confide in. You’re always here for us. But I don’t even know basic stuff about you.”

“Well, I am an open book,” Stiles says loftily. “Ask away.” 

“Do you like Isaac?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, thrown. “He’s cool. He’s great for Scott.”

“Do you know someone is hurting him?” Derek asks. “Is that why you orchestrated him and Scott being friends?”

“I didn’t know it had started,” Stiles says, softly. “I knew someone would.” 

“Who?” Derek asks. He rubs his shoulder against Stiles’. 

“His dad,” Stiles says. He rolls his neck, plotting absently. “He locks him in a freezer. In the basement.”

“What?” Derek asks, face paling. “His own son?”

“There is nothing people won’t do,” Stiles says, rubbing his eye with the heel of his palm. “Nothing.” 

“Erica,” Derek says, looking back from where they came. “She’s sick. Her brain chemistry is...wrong.” 

“Epilepsy,” Stiles says. 

“And Boyd has something going on too. Am I right?” Derek asks. 

“Yep. Survivors’ guilt, to start with,” Stiles says. He feels exhausted. He feels helpless. 

“You’re collecting pack members?” Derek asks, face creased as he puzzles through it. “For Laura?”

“For the Hales,” Stiles says. He doesn’t want to lie. “For the Hale territory.”

“You see them—You  _ don’t  _ see them as they are now,” Derek observes. “You see what they’ll become.”

“What they could become, maybe,” Stiles says, distracted. He wonders at this revelation. At Lydia’s surprise when he’d called Erica a bombshell. “Damn. You just rocked my world.” 

“All of us?” Derek asks, stopping in place. He looks nervous, almost excited. “Who do you see when you look at me?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles says, still honest. “I see you. But sometimes—“

“Sometimes you look at me like I should be sharing an inside joke with you,” Derek says, a mirror of a conversation held six months ago. “Like I can do anything. Because you see who I could become.”

“Hey, hey. I see you, Derek,” Stiles says, coming around the front of Derek. “I’m not friends with some random Derek from the future. I  _ was _ , maybe, but not now.”

“Yeah?” Derek asks, looking at Stiles sideways. He looks down at the ground again and his ears flush pink. “We were together, right? Would be together?”

“Ah, come on,” Stiles groans, turning away. “Don’t do the whole—I don’t want to answer that.” 

“You called me ‘baby’ in the hospital,” Derek says, meeting Stiles’ eyes. “You thought—“

“Derek,” Stiles says more firmly than he means to. He softens his tone. “Please. I’m still—It gets tangled. And I’m untangling it but I’m not quite in the ‘laugh-at-the-shared-future-that-will-never-be’ phase. I’m barely in the ‘done-processing’ phase.” 

“Alright,” Derek says, raising his hands. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s cool,” Stiles says. He scratches his head and then swings his arm forwards and backwards. “Let’s go get pretzels.”

***

Things go sideways at  _ The Jungle _ . Things go ass-over-tea-kettle stupid at  _ The Jungle _ . 

Peter’s skulking around the interior of the club, wearing his normal attire. Stiles is trawling the bar, looking as jailbaity and vulnerable as possible, when he spots Danny. And then, unfortunately, Danny spots him. 

“Stiles?” Danny asks, mouth agape. He looks like he came straight from practice in a pair of Adidas sweats and a hoodie. “What are you wearing?”

“I feel like I don’t need to answer that,” Stiles says. He looks down at his pendant hanging on his chest, his mostly unbuttoned black shirt and Laura’s jeans. “I feel like saying it out loud would make it worse.”

“You look like a coke whore,” Danny says, covering his mouth with his hand. “You look like Paris Hilton’s next best friend.” 

“Okay, I feel like Paris Hilton references are a little outdated even for this time,” Stiles protests. He stifles his Paris rant and raises an eyebrow at Danny. “What are you doing here?”

“I mean, it’s a gay bar,” Danny says, rolling his eyes. “Why do you think I’m here?”

“Don’t bullshit me,” Stiles argues. “You’re wearing sweatpants. What are you here for?”

“Thanks for telling Lydia I’m your weed hook up,” Danny says instead of answering him. “She bitched at me about your GPA for an entire hour today. She thinks that it won’t be as impressive to win valedictorian against a stoner.”

“She’s kind of right,” Stiles says shrugging. “Sorry, I guess. I wasn’t about to tell her that you were texting me because of Gerard.”

“Allison’s grandpa,” Danny says. He sighs. “Gerard. You can keep a secret, I guess. I’m here to pick up from my molly guy. He’s only in town every few months.”

“You meet your molly dealer at a gay club?” Stiles asks, snorting. 

“Yeah. It’s public and safer than meeting in some parking lot. He’s been cool so far but this time something’s a little off,” Danny says. He pulls his phone out and shows Stiles a message screen with an unknown number. “He’s blowing my phone up.”

“Do you want me to come with you to the pick up?” Stiles asks. If there are any vampires around they aren’t interested in Stiles right now. 

“Honestly, that would be cool,” Danny says. He screws his mouth up a little. “I don’t think anything weird is going to happen but it would be nice to have back-up. Usually Jackson comes but he’s busy tonight.”

“Lead the way,” Stiles says, buttoning his shirt up a little more. He’s sure Peter hears the entire conversation so he doesn’t bother alerting him. 

Danny leads him up a set of stairs he didn’t know existed and into a hallway with a dozen rooms. There are various sounds coming from the doors that Stiles doesn’t dwell on. Danny continues to the end of the hallway and he knocks on the last door. 

“Entrez,” a voice calls with a heavy French accent. 

Danny enters, waving as he does, and Stiles sticks close behind him. There are three people in the room. One, on an overstuffed armchair in the middle of the room, looks like the leader. He’s got pale white hair slicked back from his face and dark purple-brown eyes. His skin is lined with age but he holds himself like a youth. He’s wearing a camo tracksuit and a thick gold chain. 

Another man is to the left of the doorway, in the blind spot, and he looks like a rat with money. A black-haired woman is sitting on the bar in the corner of the room with a bottle of champagne between her knees. 

They are all vampires. 

“Salut, Danny,” the white haired man says. “Where is the rude boy? And who have you brought in his place?”

“Jackson was busy. This is just Stiles,” Danny says, closing the door behind them. “Stiles, meet Remy.”

“No,” Remy says, sitting forward. “Not just Stiles. You are Mieczysław.”

“You’ve heard of me,” Stiles says. He relaxes his body, balancing on the balls of his feet, and prepares for a blood bath. 

“The Marquis of this…hamlet warned us off you,” Remy says. He crosses a leg over the other and the holographic side paneling on his shoe shimmers. “He is a powerful Marquis. An elder. I was very happy to obey.”

“I’m sensing a ‘but’,” Stiles says. He moves up alongside Danny, tracking the other two vampires carefully. 

“Ah, he is witty,” Remy says to the dark haired woman. She’s already giggling, hunched over the champagne bottle. “Yes. There is a but.  _ But _ then you killed two of my coven. And now, instead of obedient, I am prêt à manger.” 

“Killed?” Danny asks, whipping to look at Stiles. 

“Technically,” Stiles says, gritting his teeth. He elbows Danny behind him. “Technically, I didn’t kill either.”

“No?” Remy asks. 

“Nope. My pet werewolf had those honors,” Stiles says. His grimace turns to a smile. He shrugs, “Not that I wouldn’t have been happy to do the job.”

Remy laughs, head thrown back and fangs glistening. 

“Stiles,” Danny breathes, sinking back against the door. The rat-faced vampire is moving out of his corner in slow, even steps. 

“Danny, run,” Stiles says, splaying his arms out to protect Danny. 

“What the hell is going on?” Danny asks, fear tightening his voice. 

“Well, I feel like that kind of speaks for itself,” Stiles says. He’s waiting for the last possible second to pull the piano wire from his underwear, surprise is the only advantage he has on the vampires. “Seriously, please run.” 

The door clicks open and that’s when rat-face charges, impossibly fast. Stiles barely has time to get the piano wire up. Through the grace of God, he’s able to catch the vampire in his wire loop and he uses the wire like reigns. He uses the wire to swing around behind the vampire, crossing his arms and pressing his knee into the small of rat-face’s back. His wire grinds through the columns of the vampires’ throat and his head slides gruesomely off his neck. 

Danny’s mostly out of the door but he freezes, watching the head hit the carpet and bounce. 

“Go,” Stiles shouts over his shoulder. 

He turns back to Remy and the woman but the woman is already moving. Her champagne bottle has fallen to the floor and blood glugs darkly from it. 

She avoids Stiles, ducking around him to grab Danny around the middle. Then she hauls Danny to the center of the room beside Remy. 

“Tread lightly,” Remy trills. He reaches without looking and catches Danny’s hand. He slides up Danny’s sleeve to reveal the blue-green lacing of his inner wrist. “I am famished. But your blood would satiate better than this boy’s.” 

“Let him go,” Stiles says, dropping his wire. He moves closer, praying for Peter. “You can have me.” 

“I smell a trick,” the woman giggles. She buries her face into Danny’s neck and laughs even harder when he flinches. “A trick. A trick!”

“No tricks,” Stiles says, holding his hand out. “A trade. Me for Danny.”

Remy smiles, tilting his head towards Danny. 

“Foolish little Mieczysław,” Remy says. He bares his fangs, mouth opening too widely. “I’m not letting either of you leave here alive.”

Three things happen. 

Stiles runs forward, weaponless. 

Peter drops through the ceiling roaring, amid a mess of debris and installation. 

Remy sinks his fangs into Danny’s arm. 

The room riots back into motion. Peter’s landed behind Danny and the woman. He tears the woman off Danny with ease, separating her head neatly with a thoughtful twist. Remy is up, meeting Stiles in the middle with a gleeful smile. 

“Say ‘ah’,” he murmurs, grasping Stiles’ face. He leans down as if to kiss Stiles’ with fangs dripping venom. 

Stiles bucks, dropping down hard enough that he pulls from Remy’s grasp. He’s on his back now, crab-walking backwards as quickly as he can. Remy stalks towards him, gold chain bouncing on his chest. 

Then, Peter’s between them in his fearsome, twisted Alpha form. Fur ripples through the seams of his dress shirt and his feet bend backwards into monstrous wolf’s paws. Three-inch-long claws curve from his hands and he shakes the ragged mane that’s sprouted from his neck as he howls. 

Remy pauses at this sight, fear coloring his pallid expression. He draws back and then zooms up and out of the hole Peter punched in the ceiling. Peter turns, more beast than man, and he takes Stiles’ face where Remy had grabbed it. His eyes are startlingly human. 

“ _ Mine,”  _ he breathes through a fanged maw.  _ “My piggy.” _

“Peter?” Stiles asks, gripping his coarsely furred forearms. Peter’s claws puncture his cheeks and the wolf-man whines. “Peter, it’s okay.”

_ “Piggy hurt?” _ Peter-wolf asks, whining in the back of his throat. 

“I’m fine—but—Fuck. Danny,” he gasps, shoving out of Peter’s hold. Danny is curled up in a ball on the floor, clutching his wrist. Stiles is beside him in an instant, pushing the hair back from Danny’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“It hurts,” Danny chokes out, face pulled right. It looks like he’s grinning, his lips tight over his teeth, but his eyes couldn’t be taken for anything except tortured. “It  _ burns.” _

“Remy infected him,” Peter says from behind them, voice hoarse. “We need to get him to Aleksy before he turns completely. He needs to drink from another vampire or he’ll be feral. He needs a sire.” 

Stiles darts a glance back at him. Peter looks like he ran a marathon but he’s still standing. His shirt is shredded around him and he broke out of his leather oxfords. The elastic hems of his socks ring his ankles but the foot portion is gone. 

“Can you carry him?” Stiles asks. 

“Don’t be stupid,” Peter says. He inhales carefully, straightening his shoulders. Then he crosses the room and collects Danny from the ground. 

They leave out the fire exit beside the base of the secret stairs and then they’re running to Stiles’ Jeep. Stiles throws Peter the keys after they put Danny in the back and Peter hesitates once he’s grabbed them. 

“You shouldn’t be back there with him,” Peter says. “I don’t know how fast he could turn.”

“Drive,” Stiles snaps. He crawls into the back seat and pulls Danny’s head into his lap. Danny is still cringing but the whites of his eyes are steadily turning red. He seizes into an arc, feet kicking against the wall of the Jeep and then blood is dribbling from his open mouth. Fangs gleam in the place of his canines. 

Stiles dials Aleksy and jams the phone between his ear and his shoulder. 

_ “Mieczysław,”  _ Aleksy says in greeting.  _ “Another late night call.” _

“My friend was bitten by—The vampire at the club. Bitten by Remy,” Stiles says in a rush. Danny’s entire body slumps and he looks up at Stiles with a lost, empty expression. “He looks like shit. Red eyes, fangs, etc. Can you help?”

_ “Yes,”  _ Aleksy says.  _ “Is Peter with you?” _

“Yeah, Peter’s here,” Stiles says. He uses the hem of his button up to mop up the blood in the corner of Danny’s mouth. 

_ “Come to my home, not the shop,”  _ Aleksy says. 

“Address?” Peter asks, meeting Stiles’ eyes in the mirror. 

_ “You’ve been before,” _ Aleksy says plainly. 

“Fifteen years ago. And I left there blacked out with wolfsbane-alcohol poisoning. Apologies, old friend. Might I have the address?” Peter asks. He merges recklessly onto the freeway and Stiles has never been gladder for his atrocious driving habits. 

_ “The Summit Village. Near Lake Hill Cove,”  _ Aleksy says.  _ “Make haste. Each fledgling changes at different rates.” _

Stiles thanks Aleksy and hangs up. Danny is just limp in his lap, rocking with the Jeep like a buoy on the water. His eyes search Stiles’ but there is no one home. 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says. Tears well up in his chest and he suppresses them. “I’m sorry.” 

Stiles barely takes in the sheer extravagance of Aleksy’s home. It is imposing, painted a classic white with many windows, and the driveway is a half mile loop around a topiary garden. Aleksy is waiting on the front steps, a towel over his shoulder and house slippers on his feet. 

He meets them at the Jeep and Stiles helps him gather Danny from the back seat. Danny’s head lolls back and he reaches upwards, grasping at nothing. The front door is already open and Stiles follows at Aleksy’s elbow, anxiety churning the acid of his stomach. 

“Is it too late?” Stiles asks, reading no insight into Aleksy’s serene face. 

“No, he can still be sired,” Aleksy says, scenting the air. 

He leads Stiles through a long hallway, Peter follows behind. The hallway opens up to a ballroom, lined in mirrors and floor-to-ceiling windows. Instead of empty dancing space, there are six marble statues dotting the room. Each statue is of different nude men, all are down on one knee, hands folded behind their back, looking up towards the ceiling. At first, Stiles thinks they’re painted brown on the chest in wide, messy strokes. He realizes quickly that it’s not paint. The swathes of rusty brown are blood, dried and hardened with age. 

There is one statue that has no blood smeared across its torso. Stiles sees his own face in the statue, the peak of his nose and the hollows of his cheeks. His own knobby shoulders and the curving scars along his rib cage. 

When Stiles looks to Aleksy, the man is standing beside a bolted door and watching Stiles carefully. The nearly full moon’s light shines through the huge windows and casts his aristocratic face in stark relief. There is a smile hidden in the darkness. 

“Won’t you be so kind as to open this for me?” He asks, voice neutral. He gestures to the bolted door just as Danny vomits a cascade of blood on to the towel over his shoulder. 

Stiles darts to the door, tabling the weird statues for later. Aleksy is looking at Danny now, frowning slightly. Any voyeuristic joy is gone now and he nearly looks concerned. 

“Quickly, Mieczysław,” he says, a thread of urgency in his voice. 

As soon as Stiles has the door open, Aleksy zips through it fast enough to cause a breeze. Stiles follows, Peter on his heels, down into a basement. 

There is a gurney in the middle of the room and Aleksy sets Danny down on it. Then he bites his own wrist, drawing ruby blood to the surface. He pauses then, meeting Stiles’ eyes. 

“This is not a gift, Mieczysław,” he says, meeting Stiles’ gaze evenly. “This has a price.”

“What is the price?” Peter asks, putting a hand on Stiles’ shoulder. 

“A month of your time,” Aleksy says. “When I call, you will come. Thirty days from sunrise to sunset. In a day, in a year, in a decade.”

“Stiles,” Peter says warily. 

Stiles hesitates. As if on cue, Danny goes rigid on the table. He retches and blood burbles from his mouth and down the sides of his face.

“Deal. A month,” Stiles says. “Do it.”

Aleksy presses his wrist to Danny’s mouth and Danny seems to surge into action. He curls around Aleksy’s arm, drinking greedily from his wrist.

“He will sleep for days,” Aleksy says, looking down on Danny. “The change is a violent one. First he will purge his blood—his corpse blood—and he will need to replace it with fresh blood. Mine will sustain him in the next few days. The sire bond will be complete then.”

“There’s no way to cure vampirism? Killing the one who bit him or—or anything?” Stiles asks, wrapping his arms around himself. 

“No,” Aleksy says. He brushes his fingers through the sweat-drenched hair of Danny’s head. “The path a vampire walks is long and arduous. The only escape is death.”

“What happens now? You’re his sire but what does that mean?” Stiles asks. He looks around for a chair to sit on and, finding none, he sits on the floor. 

“I am to him as he is to me,” Aleksy says. “He is mine now. I have sired a handful of vampires in my time. Only four. We will speak within our minds. I will feel him anywhere on this planet. He has become a splinter of me.”

“How soon will he be able to return to his life?” Peter asks. He runs his fingers over Stiles’ buzz cut and then tucks his hands into his pockets. 

“Soon. I am a strong sire. A week. Perhaps less,” Aleksy says. He pulls his wrist free from Danny’s fangs. Danny has settled into a deep trance. Aleksy removes the towel from his shoulder and begins cleaning Danny’s face gently. “What of the vampire who turned him?”

“He escaped,” Peter says. “His name is Remy.”

“I know of him,” Aleksy says. “He and his coven are nomadic. They travel the world and never stay in a district long enough to require proper ruling.”

“It keeps them able to do whatever they want,” Peter observes. “Well. At this point, he’s down to just himself.”

“You killed four vampires?” Aleksy asks, glancing up at them. When Stiles nods he looks back down at Danny. “He has more. Perhaps ten scattered across the continents.”

“The wisps—,” Stiles starts. He becomes aware of dozens of wisps watching him from all corners of the room. Two sit beside Danny’s head, brushing minuscule fingers through his hair. 

“The wisps share what knowledge they can. But divining their messages can be difficult,” Aleksy says. “What is his name?”

“Whose?” Stiles asks. Then he realizes. “Danny. His name is Danny.” 

“Danny,” Aleksy murmurs, brushing his fingertip over the fan of Danny’s eyelashes. “Marvelous.”

“Aleksy,” Stiles says, returning to his feet. “The statues upstairs.” 

“Odes to desire,” Aleksy says, tilting his head. “The gift of inspiration strikes me so rarely now. I was once a famed sculptor. Many years ago. And you? You were  _ designed  _ for marble sculpting, Mieczysław.” 

“The blood,” Stiles says. He swallows reflexively. 

Aleksy smiles, showing his wicked fangs. 

“Freely given,” he says. “By each of my muses. I’ll tell you of them one day. Tonight, you will leave. There is nothing more to do and I cannot abide fretting.”

“Are you sure?” Stiles asks. “I want to see him tomorrow.”

“I’m led to believe the first few days are essential in the sire bond,” Peter says, raising his eyebrows. He looks carefully pleasant.

“It is when we settle our bond. Best done with exclusively the coven present,” Aleksy says. “I will handle the boy’s parents.”

“How?” Stiles asks, fearing the answer. 

“A glamour. Set to ease concern,” Aleksy replies. “My fledgling will need time.”

“You’ll call when he wakes up?” Stiles asks

“The very moment” Aleksy agrees, gesturing behind them. “Bonny will show you back upstairs.”

Stiles whirls, adrenaline rushing. A girl is standing on the steps in a long white dress. Her hair is a black, filmy cloud around her delicate, fox-like face but she's got that dark purple gaze all the vampires seem to sport. She looks to be about fourteen years old.

“Hello,” she says in a careful monotone. “I have prepared the green room.”

“Thank you, Bonny,” Aleksy says. He turns back to Stiles and Peter and extends an arm towards her. “Please, rest. There is nothing else to be done tonight. I will post vigil until he awakens.”

“Thank you,” Stiles says. He bites his lower lip, feeling a rush of gratitude. Danny is changed forever but he’s still alive. And Aleksy is tricky but noble. Danny is as safe as he can be for now. Stiles corners the gurney and puts a hand on Aleksy’s forearm. Aleksy stiffens, eyes on Stiles hand. Stiles waits for Aleksy to meet his eyes again. “Thank you.” 

“There is little I wouldn’t do for you,” Aleksy says, casual like he’s reading the weather. “Rest now, Mieczysław. I will fetch you if he awakens.”

Peter sets a hand on Stiles' hip as they follow Bonny back up the stairs and through the statue showcase. Stiles lingers before his own statue, looking down at the careful rendering of his own face. His statue’s expression is twisted into a filthy rapture and Stiles shivers at the idea of how Aleksy captured that particular expression. Maybe on one of his and Peter’s romps in the woods. 

“I haven’t been around long enough to meet any of the other muses,” Bonny says, appearing behind the statue. She twists her fingers together and loops her arms around his statue’s neck from behind, leaning her head on it’s cheek. “The last one was in the forties. It’s nice to meet you, Mieczysław.”

“How long have you been around?” Stiles asks, unable to stop himself. “How did you meet him?”

“It was the seventies, baby,” she says, a soft smile curves over her face. There’s a gap between her front teeth. “I was looped in with some real dirtbags and mixed up in stuff I couldn’t handle. Aleksy was my guardian angel for a few years but I couldn’t ever kick my nasty little habit. After I bit off more than I could chew, he fixed me back up.” 

“How old were you?” Stiles asks. 

“Nineteen,” Bonny drawls, drawing her finger over the curve of the statue’s shoulder. “A real spring chicken.”

“What about the others he’s sired?” Stiles asks. “Do they live here?”

“You have to ask Aleksy about that,” she says. She stands upright again and drifts toward the door that leads back into the main house. 

She leads them through elegant halls to the front door. Stiles hesitates, looking back towards where they came. Then he leaves. 

***

“Maybe it’s alright if we pretend to be normal tonight,” Stiles says. He watches the blood sluice off his hands and down the sink’s drain. He doesn’t look at himself in Peter’s bathroom mirror. 

Peter is in the shower, humming quietly. He turns off the water and reaches for a towel. 

Stiles continues, “Tonight was... A shit show. And I don’t think I have enough energy to wrestle you into bed. But I can’t—I can’t be  _ alone with this feeling—“ _

He breaks off, voice choking, and he bends to press his forehead to the counter. It’s cool against the heated skin of his face. His throat burns with repressed sorrow. He’d been so close to keeping his friends safe. He’d been so close to keeping his friends out of all of this. Now, Danny, of all people, has been dragged into it. 

“Stand up,” Peter says gently, splaying a hand over Stiles’ back. “Up, darling.”

Stiles pushes himself up onto his elbows, finally meeting his eyes in the mirror. They’re red, his entire face is red, and he feels a fresh wave of self-revulsion. 

“We can be normal tonight,” Peter says, hauling Stiles all the way to standing. He turns him and tucks Stiles under his chin. He just holds him. “I’ll find you a cup of tea. You’ll drink it in bed wearing some ridiculous nightshirt Aleksy’s got crammed in that armoire out there. I’ll kiss you after without teeth and press you down on the linen.”

“I need that,” Stiles says, squeezing Peter harder. 

“I’ll tell you sweet things,” Peter continues, running a hand over Stiles’ buzz cut. “And treat you like fine China.” 

Stiles nods miserably. He doesn’t like being vulnerable in front of people. But Peter is different. He isn’t people. 

And so Peter puts Stiles in a big shirt and tucks him into the giant bed. The mattress is a decadent, feather-stuffed monstrosity that Stiles feels small in. He leaves and returns with a mint tea that has a cheerful lemon wedge floating in it. 

Then, he climbs in on the other side of the bed. 

“Have you heard from Scott, dear?” He asks, leaning on his elbow to face Stiles. His face is a picture of domestic comfort and Stiles sets his half-full mug on the side table and turns off the lamp. 

The room dissolves into warm darkness and Peter reaches for Stiles immediately. He pulls them so Stiles’ is under him, thighs spread to welcome the bulk of Peter against him. Peter’s chin is rough, he hasn’t shaved since this morning, and his scruff rasps over Stiles’ throat as he scents him thoroughly. 

“Can you fuck me?” Stiles asks, hands shaking on Peter’s back. 

“I can do anything you need, darling,” Peter says in a soft voice, low and warm to match the room. Stiles’ heart wrings at the pet name. “Just tell me.” 

“Pretend this is—this isn't an act,” Stiles chokes. His emotions that he’s been suppressing all night hit him like a train. Peter stills. “That you l-love me. And we’ve been together for years and you’d never leave me. No matter how much I fucked up. You’d never leave.”

“I won’t,” Peter says. His eyes blaze blue in the dark and he holds Stiles’ face still with a hand on his jaw so he can meet his eyes. “You have to know. I’d never leave you.”

“Perfect,” Stiles says. He leans up to kiss Peter. “Say it again.” 

“I’ll never leave you, Stiles,” Peter says, eyebrows creased. He kisses Stiles slowly, like they have an eternity. “Never.”

“Again,” Stiles urges, the knot in his stomach dissolving. 

“You’ll have to send me away to get rid of me,” Peter says. 

He reaches over to the side table, finding a tube in the top drawer, and then he’s pushing the hem of the nightshirt up to Stiles’ chin so he is bare from the chest down. Peter slides down a little, tongue startling over Stiles’ skin. The sheets are cool under Stiles and he feels strangely virginal tonight in this bed. 

Peter laves his tongue over Stiles’ nipples, leaving one to chill in the exposed air while he flicks the point of his tongue over the other. Stiles clamps his legs over the sinuous cording of Peter’s sides and that’s when Peter draws back. 

“I’m going to put my fingers in you,” Peter says, peppering kisses across Stiles’ chest. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, shivering as the air flows across his wet nipples. “Ready for you.” 

Peter settles back against him and Stiles makes a quiet noise when his tongue finds the peak of Stiles’ chest again. Peter’s finger finds his hole and there’s a slow, wet press. Stiles lets himself drift, arms crossed over his face. 

He shudders into a moan when Peter nips him with teeth at the same time he presses another finger in. Peter’s fingers are always so warm inside him, wolves run hot. Stiles doubts a human's fingers could ever make him feel like this. 

“You’re so quiet,” Peter murmurs between slow drags of his tongue. “Will you look at me, darling?”

Stiles tilts his head up, leaning up on his elbows so Peter can catch his mouth in a kiss. It’s a slow kiss, meandering and messy. Stiles’ lips feel over sensitive, each drag of Peter’s mouth makes him let out this shuddering breath. Peter kisses him through the introduction of a third finger and Stiles’ pushes his knees as far apart as he can so he can feel every millimeter of Peter’s fingers dragging inside him. 

He pants against Peter’s mouth, rocks against his fingers until he can feel the familiar curl of imminent orgasm building in his stomach.

“Another finger,” Stiles breathes, arching his neck. 

“No,” Peter answers, slowing down his hand. 

“What?” Stiles asks, thrown. “Why?”

“Not tonight,” Peter says, kissing the corner of Stiles’ frown. “I won’t hurt you tonight.” 

“Peter,” Stiles gasps. His head feels stuffed with cotton. “Please fuck me.” 

“On your back?” Peter asks, drawing back to sit on his heels. 

“No,” Stiles says, turning below him. He can’t be that vulnerable to Peter. He braces on his elbows beneath Peter, knees on either side of his. “Like this.”

The lube cap clicks again and then there’s fingers in him again. He’s too slick, he can feel it dripping down his inner thighs but then Peter pushes into him and he stops caring. 

“You feel exquisite,” Peter breathes, sinking down so he’s plastered against Stiles’ back. He reaches up to lace his fingers with Stiles’ and just as he bottoms out he says, “I love how you feel.” 

Stiles makes a hurt noise, dropping his forehead down against the bed and then Peter is moving slowly. The drag sends vibrant electricity singing through Stiles’ nerves and he can’t help the moaning. It starts quiet, pushed from him by Peter’s hips and then, by the time Peter is really giving it to him, he’s louder than a porn star. 

His entire body is overwhelmed, from the top of his head to his toes, and he can’t even begin to consider quieting down. He’s mindless, caught in the circuit of Peter’s cock and his own desperation. Tonight is a new torture, one where Stiles is aware enough to understand how much he wants Peter. 

“You sound wrecked,” Peter says, a smile in his voice. “Do I feel that good inside you?”

“Yes, dickhead,” Stiles stutters. He dissolves back into his waves of pleasure and it dissolves the acid in his voice. He whimpers, turning his face to the side. “Tell me again.”

“I’ll never leave,” Peter says immediately. His thrusts slow and he drops down to kiss the side of Stiles’ face. He presses his mouth behind Stiles’ ear and lets go of one hand to reach down for Stiles’ cock. “Never.”

“Peter,” Stiles says, unable to think. He’s full of Peter. Enclosed by Peter. It’s as close to heaven as he deserves. 

“I love you,” Peter says, softly and in shards like it’s an accident. Then, as easy as rain falling from the sky, “I love you.”

“Peter,” Stiles chokes again and Peter’s hand moves at the perfect speed over his cock. Stiles is slumped against the mattress, helpless to anything but ride Peter’s motions. “Peter, I’m gonna come.” 

“Please do,” Peter murmurs. He lets go of Stiles’ other hands and instead grips his chin, turning Stiles’ face until he can’t help but meet Peter’s eyes. He’s turned, braced against one arm and Peter’s hand on his face. 

“Again,” Stiles says, voice hoarse from his moaning. 

“I love you,” Peter says simply. His grip is just this side of painful on Stiles’ face. His face is angelic, beautiful and sincere. “I love you. I’m not leaving.”

Stiles is pushed over the edge then, into orgasm and into tears. He shudders into crying as he spills over Peter’s hand. He’s still making eye contact with Peter and he has to blink away the tears filling his eyes to realize Peter’s eyes are watery too. 

Peter finishes just after him, curling impossibly closer and closing his eyes. He lets go of Stiles’ face and instead draws him closer with an arm under his belly. Peter is quiet and warm against his back and when Stiles slumps down Peter comes with him. 

“Can we—,” Stiles starts but he cuts himself off. He hiccups on a sob. 

Peter rolls back to his side of the bed, breathing hard and staring at the ceiling with wolf’s eyes. 

“Can we what?” Peter asks, turning to look at Stiles. 

“Can we keep pretending?” Stiles asks.“For tonight?”

Peter is quiet, watching Stiles cry for long enough that Stiles’ tears dry up. Stiles sits up, wiping his face with the t-shirt still looped around his armpits. He pulls it back down to cover his groin. 

“Yes,” Peter says. He lifts an arm, making a place for Stiles to move into. “Come here, darling.”

Stiles goes. 

***

Stiles wakes up slowly, in stages. He and Peter aren’t curled around each other which is odd. He turns slowly, seeking Peter. 

Pale, tepid sunlight filters through the slats of Peter’s shutters. Peter is still asleep, striped with shadow. Stiles just looks at him--at the sunlight shining over his eyelashes. At the crest of his upper lip. The cords of his throat leading down to the ridge of his collarbones. Peter’s peaceful now, smooth-faced and breathing deeply. 

Stiles’ phone buzzes on the nightstand and Stiles watches Peter breath for a moment longer before turning to look at it.

Aleksy has sent him a photo of Danny. He’s still on the gurney, arms folded morbidly over his chest. Danny’s skin is a terrible ash color that makes Stiles’ stomach twist. 

Aleksy:

He is doing well. I will let you know if that changes. 

Stiles sighs, tapping out a quick thanks, and then he turns back to Peter. 

“Jesus,” he mutters, starting a little when he finds Peter awake and watching him back. 

“Hello,” Peter says, voice rough. He scratches the trail of hair beneath his navel, pushing the blanket even lower. 

“Hi,” Stiles says, squishing the pillow into a more comfortable bunch under his head. 

“It’s the full moon,” Peter says, smiling towards the ceiling. “Are you coming tonight?”

“Derek invited me yesterday,” Stiles says. 

“I can’t imagine you said no to him,” Peter murmurs. He turns his head and regards Stiles carefully. “At the same time, you aren’t a besotted little fool anymore.” 

“I don’t know how you can fit so much pretension and dickheadedness into so few words,” Stiles laughs, reaching out to shove Peter’s shoulder. “You are the worst.”

“You’re using your brain too much,” Peter says. “You’re boring me.”

“Apologies, my lord,” Stiles drawls, trailing his finger over the round of Peter’s shoulder. “How might I make it up to you?”

“Don’t argue with me for the next thirty seconds,” Peter says. He reaches over, manhandling Stiles up and onto his knees. “Turn around, darling.” 

“Twenty seconds left,” Stiles says, turning his back to Peter. 

Peter grabs him again, pulling him back and over so Stiles is half-seated on his chest facing his knees. Peter grabs him by the hips and pulls him further up his body. 

“Oh, no,” Stiles yelps, clinging to the blanket. 

“I’ve got at least fifteen seconds,” Peter says from behind Stiles. He drags his hands up Stiles’ ass, pushing the t-shirt up into the small of Stiles’ back. “It’s the full moon. I’m a wolf. You’re delicious. I want to eat you. No arguing.”

“Peter,” Stiles says, laughing despite himself. 

But he doesn’t say no. 

***

“There is a morbid quote I rather enjoy,” Peter says after, the picture of smug satisfaction. “‘All God does is watch us and kill us when we get boring. We must never, ever be boring.’”

“That’s pretty good,” Stiles says. He’s panting like he ran a marathon, slumped over on the mattress on his face. His fingers are numb and his brain feels like a bee hive. He clears his throat, lifting his head a little, “‘Death is dwelling on the past or staying in one place too long.’”

“ _ Mermaids _ ,” Peter says, softly. “ _ Mermaids  _ and  _ Moonstruck.  _ Cher.”

“W-what?” Stiles asks, tripping over his own tongue. He gets his arms under him, lifting so he can look at Peter closer. 

“It’s Cher that you’ve been quoting,” Peter says. He sits up, popping his spine in a series of alarming cracks, utterly oblivious to the fact that he cracked Stiles wide open. “Of all things, why her?”

“How is that your fucking business?” Stiles snaps, rolling off the bed and finding his pants. His mother, brittle and wild on a hospital bed with a rainbow of VHS boxes on her lap. He buttons Laura’s jeans with a vengeance. “Do you think that because you’re fucking me you get to know whatever you want?”

“No,” Peter says archly. He’s sitting up with his elbows on his knees and a lock of hair curling over his eyebrow. He’s backlit by the shutter and Stiles is devastated by how fond he feels. “You don’t need to tell me about your quoting habits.” 

“Great,” Stiles says. He feels foolish in his sudden defensive anger. His sheepish feeling feeds into a loop of irritation at himself. He crosses his arms. “That’s just great to have your permission.”

Peter stands as well, glorious and nude, and he drops a kiss on Stiles’ forehead as he passes to the bathroom. 

“Go bully someone your own size,” he calls from the en suite. “I’ll see you tonight at the Hale Estate.”

“Bite me,” Stiles says. The shower turns on. He steals a sweater from Peter’s drawer and allows himself a moment to smell the rich, earthy scent of Peter’s cologne trapped in the collar of the sweater. He finds his keys where he’d flung them in Peter’s living room and then leaves. 

He goes home. Crawls into bed with Peter’s sweater soft on his skin. Sleeps another four hours. Tries not to miss his mom. 

It doesn’t work. 

***

His dad is wearing a button-up shirt and a tie. He’s got his nice shoes on and two bottles of red wine downstairs. 

“Who do you think is going to be there?” Stiles asks, grinning as his father combs pomade through his hair. 

His dad sighs, bracing on the sink. He meets Stiles’ eyes in the mirror. 

“Look, kid, I didn’t realize how serious all of this was,” his dad says. “I didn’t realize that we were being invited into their--their pack. I didn’t understand what it meant and now that I know how much is being--How much it  _ means?  _ I want to make sure Laura knows that I understand. That I respect what it means.”

“You look pretty snappy,” Stiles says, smile softening. “But we are about to spend all night in the woods. I think wearing your boots wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” John says. He adjusts his tie carefully. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

Stiles looks down at his sweatpants and t-shirt. 

“Yeah?”

“No,” John says. “Go put on some pants with a zipper. Make haste, kiddo. We’re going to be late as it is.”

“You’re the one who decided to bring cabbage rolls at the last moment,” Stiles says. But he heads to his room. He picks out some dressier garments Aleksy and Peter picked out for him. A silky, shiny green shirt and black pants. He loops a tie through his own collar, tying it as straight as he can and when his dad sees him again he nods approvingly. 

“Black pudding seems like a werewolf hit,” his dad says, heading down the stairs. “But I need to arrange for a blood order way ahead of time.”

“They would probably lose it for black pudding,” Stiles agrees. He jogs down the stairs after his dad and meets him in the kitchen. His father had dug a casserole dish and holder out of the back of their pantry and it sits proudly on the counter, full of hot, lovingly wrapped cabbage rolls

“I’ll have to talk to Glenn,” John says. He dusts his hands on his legs and picks up the casserole bag. “You grab the vino, I’ve got the good stuff.”

Stiles grabs the two bottles of red they picked up and the Stilinksi’s head to the Hale Estate. 

  
  


***

Stiles can feel it as soon as they hit the property. He can feel the moon and the land and the wolves. 

The full moon sings in the Hale land, lighting up every tree branch and dappling the forest floor with shimmery patches of moonlight. The house is lit up, every window glowing golden, and Laura waits on the front porch for them. She’s in a long white dress, barefoot, and her hair tumbles around her shoulders like a fur coat. 

Stiles’ throat catches at the sight of her wide smile and he is so thankful he gets to know her. Cora slips out of the front porch and she hugs Laura’s arm and tilts her head on Laura’s shoulder. Derek leans against the doorway, strong and comfortable. 

Their eyes, all shining with preternatural light, glow brighter as the Stilinskis pull up into the driveway and park. Stiles grins again, finding his happiness flowing freely, as his dad waves like a dork when he gets out of the car. 

“We brought cabbage rolls,” his dad calls. “Still hot.”

“Smells good,” Cora says, meeting them at the base of the steps. She takes the casserole bag and unzips it there on the porch. “Smells great.”

“Hello. You look so handsome,” Laura says, leaning in to scent John’s neck. She squeezes his upper arm and then pulls back a little, still holding him. “Tonight we welcome growth.”

“The Buck Moon,” Cora says. She walks beside Stiles, rubbing shoulders with him up the steps. 

“The Buck Moon,” John echoes, nodding. “Thank you for having us.”

Cora scents John for the first time, yellow eyes watching him carefully, and he pats her shoulder once she pulls back. She quirks one side of her mouth at him, almost a smile, and melts into the house with the casserole. 

Laura releases John to draw Stiles in for a fierce hug, holding him tightly. She smells like peat and roses from the garden. He lets himself embrace her fully, lifting her and spinning a few times in place. She laughs and clings to him tighter and all of Stiles’ stress from the day melts away. 

“What do you say for this occasion?” Stiles asks, setting her down. “Merry Buck Moon?”

“You could,” Derek says, reaching out for Stiles. Stiles goes, folding under his arm easily.

They move into the house and Cora leads them to the dining table. It’s beautifully dressed with fruit and candles and crystal dishes and their funny little casserole dish in the middle. Cora’s set the dish on a huge silver platter and Stiles quirks an eyebrow at her. 

“We haven’t caught the main dish yet,” Cora says, waggling her eyebrows once. Peter catches her from behind, wrapping her in a big hug and rubbing his beard up and down the side of her face. 

“Cora, darling, are you going to ruin all the surprises?” He asks, holding her tighter when she wriggles in his arms. She’s grinning up at him, and Peter kisses her forehead before he lets her go. Stiles feels a pang of guilt at how he left things this morning. Then, at the thought of Malia, alone in the woods tonight. 

“No sad smells,” Derek murmurs, nosing Stiles’ ear and pulling him even closer. Stiles shivers, laughing helplessly up at him. “Not tonight.”

“You’re the boss,” Stiles says and Derek holds his eyes for a little too long, eyes still glowing blue. 

It’s impossible to deny the differences between the Hales and the Stilinskis tonight. Each Hale’s eyes glow, red or yellow or blue, and the smooth, predator’s gait is a flagrant sign towards their lupine nature. 

“It’s time for the hunt,” Laura says simply and they all follow her to the back porch. 

The moonlight streams down her as she walks on to the lawn, bathing her in a silver glow. Cora follows, slipping down the stairs to bump into her shoulder. Derek follows, finally releasing Stiles. Peter is last onto the grass, toeing off his oxfords at the head of the steps. He looks at Stiles once, eyes burning in the night, and then he turns back to his family.

Laura stretches, fingers curving into wicked claws, and then she howls. It’s mournful, long and lowing. Derek matches her, voice dipping and harmonizing with hers, and the sorrow amplifies. Cora’s high voice trickles into their melody and finally Peter, head tilted back, joins in. 

Stiles realizes he’s crying at the same time he meets his father’s damp eyes. The wolves’ heartbroken call resonates in his chest. He clenches his hands around the railing, knuckles turning white, and tries to dry his eyes through sheer willpower. 

The howl spirals through the air, turning angry then frantic and finally dipping back to silence. There’s a heavy moment as the wolves stand silently in the moonlight. Then Laura charges, arms pumping and white dress streaming, into the woods. Cora and Derek are neck and neck behind her and Peter follows, silent as the breeze. 

“What a thing to see,” his dad says, voice rough. “What a thing to see.”

***

The wolves return calmer than they left. Peter has a stag strewn over his shoulders and Stiles’ pulse picks up in his chest. He looks at Stiles, eyes still bright as stars, and his jaw works as he scents the air. Stiles can see the jagged edges of his teeth and he wants nothing more than to lick them.

Laura leads them towards the shed just beyond the rose garden and the Stilinskis trail behind. Derek twines a rope he’s fetched from the shed around the stag’s back feet and then he and Peter heave the stag up onto a hook protruding from the shed. There’s a bucket beneath the stag and a table of tools beside it.

“John,” Laura summons with a raspy, wolf’s voice. She looks fearsome in her now-tattered, blood smeared white dress. She selects a moonstone blade from the table and offers it to John hilt-first. “The throat.” 

Stiles’ breath catches in his chest. He’s read this rite in the Hale journals of his own time. Allowing John to bleed the stag is a motion of great respect. Laura is metaphorically bending the neck and officially inviting John into a higher standing within the pack than just a fringe member. 

John takes the knife with a steady hand, flips his tie back over his shoulder and crouches to make quick work of bleeding the stag. Then, after meeting Laura’s eyes, he hands the knife back to her. 

“Here, on the Buck Moon,” Laura says, spreading her arms like a conductor. She’s more human now but the wolf is just beneath her smooth skin. “I bring our brother, John, to our Great Mother. Here, on the Buck Moon, I invite you to our pack with Lilith’s blessing. Will you answer our call?”

“I will,” John says. 

“Will you run with us, John?” Laura asks, setting the blade on the table. She crosses and puts her bloody hands on John’s shoulders. “Will you howl with us?”

“You say when, sweetheart,” John answers, his own bloody hands on her ribs, and Laura beams up at him. 

“Will you hunt with us? Will you feast with us?” She asks urgently, claws poking out of her fingertips. 

“I will,” John answers and she tilts her head back and laughs. 

They embrace then and Stiles can’t help the ridiculous grin on his face. Laura pulls back after a long moment and turns her red eyes onto Stiles. 

She looks like the embodiment of the moon, ethereal and wild, and Stiles holds his breath as she approaches him. She gathers him in her arms and pulls him down so his ear is beside her mouth. 

“Hello,” she says softly. “This is a little late, but I hope you won’t hold it against me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Stiles says just as gently. He buries his face in her mass of curls and inhales her scent. 

“Here, on the Buck Moon,” she whispers, fingers brushing over his hair. “I bring our brother, Stiles, to our Great Mother. I invite you to our pack with Lilith’s blessing. Will you answer our call?”

“I’d be honored,” Stiles says, throat tightening. 

“Will you run with us? Will you howl with us?” She continues. Her voice is thick with tears. 

“Anywhere. Anytime,” Stiles rasps, pushing his face further into her hair. 

“Will you hunt with us?” She asks, crying openly now. “Will you feast with us?” 

“Over and over and over,” Stiles says. He sniffs. 

“I have more to ask of you,” Laura says. She pulls back, her glowing eyes wet with tears. She smooths her thumbs under Stiles’ eyes. “Will you protect us?”

“Of course,” Stiles says. His hands tighten on her dress. She couldn’t be asking--

“Will you guide us in strife? And share in our bounty?”

“Yes,” Stiles says, eyebrows pulling together. He feels like the world is moving in slow motion. 

“Will you walk between our pack and danger?” She asks finally, the Alpha timbre edging into her voice. “Will you be our emissary?”

“Yes,” Stiles says. 

She closes her eyes, squeezing out fresh tears, and presses their foreheads together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhhh big stuff is happening! Join us next time when Scott learns some things and Stiles' encounters the enemy-of-his-enemy. Maybe he'll encounter some feelings while he's at it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We move further.

Stiles awakens to hot breath on his neck. He blinks into awareness through eyelashes clumped with cool water. Confusion stirs his heart rate into a gallop and he freezes. Slowly, the moon comes into focus above him, a silver disc fringed by a faded halo of light through the warm summer drizzle falling from the cloudless sky. Down on Earth, Peter-wolf exhales loudly, nudges Stiles completely awake. 

“Hello,” Stiles breathes, sitting up. Peter-wolf shoves his massive head against Stiles’ chest, grumbling deep in his throat. He nearly knocks Stiles over in his enthusiasm and Stiles huffs a laugh. “Okay, okay. What do you want?”

The hulking beast retreats a little, curling in a tight circuit before darting in and nipping Stiles’ shirt sleeve. He pulls Stiles to his feet. Stiles winces a little at the ache in his body from laying on the cold ground for hours. 

A nearly dead bonfire burns to his left and the warm, crackling glow illuminates the dew drops falling in a frizzy mist to the ground. Laura is sprawled over Derek and Cora, arms outstretched to clutch them both. His dad is missing. Peter-wolf stands before him, monolithic and still in the moonlight. Stiles is cold and damp, barefoot and still sleep-rumpled. The smell of mesquite wood and the elk jerky marinade wafting from the smokehouse fills the air around them. It’s an imperfect heaven. 

Peter-wolf snags him by the shirtsleeve and tugs him hard enough to get him stumbling. They creep together into the woods, taking care not to disturb the sleeping wolves by the fire. Once they’re deep enough in the woods that the bonfire is a pinprick of orange through the trees, Stiles tilts his head back into the drizzle. Drawn by something beyond himself, he finds the furthest star in the sky, peeks at it from beneath his brow. His toes dig into the rain-softened dirt, one shoulder dropping as the elbow draws behind him. He inhales—slowly—and then he is running. 

Peter-wolf keeps up effortlessly, darting in serpentine paths around Stiles as he runs through the rain. His feet, not quite hand  _ or  _ paw, tear up clumps of moss as he charges through the forest beside Stiles. The forest sings now, lulling Stiles north and north and north like he’s an arrow let from a bow. Stiles follows the sounds, the smells, until he feels it. 

It feels like a nose bleed. A kick in the teeth. It feels like an ascending airplane. It feels like the universe was stuffed into Stiles’ head and now it’s being drained from his temple like a soft-serve ice cream cone. 

It feels like an accident. 

The woods part their velvet-evergreen needles as the stage curtains and all at once Stiles stands before the Nemeton. The moon dapples sterling over the rough hewn surface of the Nemeton. Peter-wolf stays behind the treeline, whining, even as Stiles is drawn closer to the stump. The tree must have been hundreds of feet tall, Stiles muses. He steps close enough that his bare toes brush the gnarled bark of the Nemeton’s roots. There’s something protruding from the middle of the stump, something small but powerful. It projects at Stiles, forces energy into his sinus cavity until he feels like his skull is going to explode. He’s on his hands and knees, crawling towards the small thing in staggered movements, unsure of everything in his life besides the pervasive understanding that he has to touch the small thing. 

At last, squirming on his belly like a worm, he reaches it. 

It’s tender, soft leaves give under the raindrops, dipping and then bouncing up once the water slips free. A twin-sprout, green and vulnerable but not weak. Strong. The length of his thumb and a sliver of the width. The sprouts merge at the surface of the Nemeton. Gentle, waving things. Stiles reaches out with shaking fingers, water dripping into his eyes as he gazes, mesmerized by the sprouts. A primal conception froths in his hindbrain, trickling through his grey matter until it hits the ganglia bundle that forces his fingers closed around one of the sprouts. He tears it free from its twin, lifting tiny white roots from the Nemeton. 

He stuffs it into his mouth. 

A ripple slams out from the first tensing of his jaw, the first chew, echoing over the forest with enough force to shake the sleeping birds from their roosts. Peter-wolf yelps, dancing along the edge of the trees, never passing through them. 

Stiles chews a second time. The sprout is bitter, acrid on his tongue, but he gnashes it to a paste and swallows it. Understanding blossoms in his sternum. The Nemeton is like him. Excused from time. There are differences of course. And similarities. Paige’s blood has spilled in all time lines. The surrogate sacrifice hasn’t happened here but the energy still lurks darkly in the roots of the Nemeton. The Darach lies beneath the scored surface, hands folded over her chest and eyes closed delicately like Snow White. The Nogitsune is a tightly furled knot deep in the soil. 

The blinding pressure in Stiles’ head fades and he comes back into his body to the sound of an entirely hushed forest. His wolf whines from behind the treeline, drawing Stiles’ eye, and it takes Stiles a moment to understand what he’s seeing. The wolf settles over the twisted mass of Peter Hale, black as night and ran through with red, burning tracts of ember. The Nemeton lends him the understanding that Peter and the wolf aren’t one, that they are competing to control their shared body. 

Blinking, Stiles turns to the rest of the woods. The wisps are dotted around the Nemeton, plump and silvery against the dark green pine floor. One particularly brave one is attempting to maneuver up a root. As a whole, the wisps begin creeping down from their tree branches and across the grass towards the Nemeton. Stiles stretches a finger towards the one climbing the root. 

Peter-wolf yips, sharp and loud in the quiet and Stiles wakes up. The grass beneath him is cold and the earth hard. In his sleep he’s separated from the group. Derek lifts his head, eyes glazed an electric blue. 

“Stiles,” Derek murmurs from a few feet away, lifting his arm sleepily. He’s still tucked beneath the sprawl of Laura’s arms and Cora sniffles before burrowing in closer. “Come here.”

The grass is still dew-damp beneath Stiles and he army-crawls the scant few feet between them until he’s close enough for Derek to loop a warm arm around his neck. Cora’s hair mixes in with Laura’s and provides a silky, cool curtain to twist his fingers into. Along with the wolves, he can feel his dad now in a spiraling thread leading into the guest room of the Hale house. 

Peter is on the porch, awake and alert, watching them sleep on the ground. Through the pack bond, Stiles can tell he’s been awake for hours. 

Stiles allows sleep to return. 

***

Stiles is still riding the tingly, incandescent high of being crowned emissary to the Hale pack as he meanders through the supermarket two days later. 

The fizzle of happiness hardly dampens when Jackson body-checks him into the cereal shelf inside the supermarket. That fizzle is the only reason he doesn’t turn the shove into a carefully steered redirect. Instead, he catches himself on the  _ Fruit Loops _ rack and then turns to face Jackson. 

“What’s up with Danny, pit stain?” Jackson demands, leaning in closer. Lydia is behind him, arms folded and purse hanging from her elbow. 

“How should I know?” Stiles asks, frowning and rubbing his elbow for effect. “He’s your friend.”

“I saw that you were together at  _ The Jungle _ ,” Jackson sneers. “SnapMaps, dumbass.”

“Well,” Stiles says, weighing his options. “Why don’t you just track him now?” 

“We did,” Lydia says, scooting in to loom at Jackson’s side. “We went to the mansion he was at and he sent us away.”

“You saw him?” Stiles asks, aiming for neutral. Lydia nods. “Then why are you worried?”

“He looked fucked up,” Jackson says and the sneer sliding off his face leaves him looking like a sad puppy. His eyes are creased by purple bruises like he hasn’t slept. “He didn’t look right.”

“He didn't  _ feel _ right,” Lydia interjects, hand pressed firmly to the hollow of her throat. “He’s not okay.”

_ Banshee _ , Stiles’ mind whispers.  _ Your friend is dead and you can tell.  _

“Look, whatever is happening in the Mystery Gang isn’t my problem,” Stiles says instead, shrugging. Jackson bristles. “Go harass someone else, Fred.”

“You saw him last. You were together for most of the night,” Lydia says, voice hard. “He was meeting some shady people and now he’s closed up in some _Wuthering Heights-_ esque mansion. What happened to him?”

“You can kick rocks too, Daphne,” Stiles says, he crosses his own arms. “Danny was in safe hands when I left. You guys saw him. It’s not my problem.” 

“Don’t be a dick,” Jackson seethes. He visibly reels himself in when Lydia presses the back of her hand to his shoulder. His shoulders crumple inwards. “We just want to make sure he’s okay. What went down at  _ The Jungle _ ?”

“He had some business there. You know,” Stiles shrugs. “Then we went to a friend’s place in Beacon Heights.” 

“Don't piss down my neck and tell me it’s rain, Stilinski,” Jackson says in a heated hush. “Danny doesn’t ghost me. That’s not how we work. Something is up and I’m going to find out what it is.”

Stiles meets Jackson’s eyes head on. It’s a matter of time before Danny let’s them in on his new situation. Stiles had received a terse but not unpleasant phone all yesterday morning from Danny. His parents were sufficiently glamoured and he was planning to rejoin society sometime next week. In essence, it’s not Stiles’ place. And even if he wanted to tell them, he wasn’t going to risk angering Aleksy. Stikes knows that Aleksy’s attraction to him is a thin safety blanket.

“We would tell you if it was Scott,” Lydia says, cutting through the quiet between the three of them.

“Danny is a big boy,” Stiles says. He lets steel run into his next words. “I’m not telling you anything until he does.” 

“So you do know,” Lydia says. She grabs Jackson’s sleeve and lifts her chin, a regal motion only belayed by the anxious twist of her mouth. “Fine. Don’t tell us. But don’t count on us to help you either.”

“Watch yourself,” Jackson says, anger heating his words. He jabs a finger into Stiles’ chest. This isn’t over.” 

Lydia and Jackson leave without a glance back and Stiles finishes his shopping in a contemplative whirlwind. Is Danny worth restarting the timeline for? 

He could head off Remy at the start. He knows now that Peter is salvageable. He could bring Malia in from the woods and Cora up from South America earlier. He could take out Gerard and Kate earlier. Clear the playing field. 

Against his will, Peter’s mouth fills his mind. The curl of his tongue as he forms Stiles’ name. His eyes, blue and bright on the roof. The hours he’s spent beneath Peter. There’s nothing about Peter that wouldn’t be recreatable. But the possessive monster in his chest— his own beast— argues that any other Peter wouldn’t be the same. 

Just as this Peter is a different person from the last timelines, a new Peter would be even further from the original. 

He can’t destroy this Peter. 

He won’t. 

***

He does go to see Danny. To check on him. He pretends not to notice the silver Porsche trailing him. 

Bonny, a member of Aleksy’s coven, is waiting for him on the porch. She’s wearing a green satin gown with a long, dirty lace train. It looks like she’s worn it for days. 

“Mieczysław,” she trills into greeting, leaning over the porch railing to wave to him. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Hi, Bonny,” Stiles says warily. He makes his way up onto the porch. “Is Aleksy home?”

“Nope,” Bonny says, peering passed him. “Did you bring friends?”

Stiles resists the urge to look back at Lydia and Jackson. “Nope. They’re Danny’s friends.”

“Must be nice to have friends,” Bonny says. She twines a lock of her curly hair around her finger. “Well. Do you wanna come in?”

“Yes, please,” Stiles says. He’s got another garrote tucked into his boxers. Bonny flashes sharp, yellow teeth at him when he walks by her into the house. She stays outside when he closes the door. 

The house is just as breathtaking, huge and elegant and still. Sweeping sprawls of dark wood lead up the stairs to where Danny is making his way down to the foyer like he’s lived in this mansion his entire life. He doesn’t walk down the steps so much as float and Stiles’ breath catches in his throat at just how  _ other _ Danny looks. 

“Are you going to bite me?” Stiles asks to fill the silence. Danny rolls his eyes, a thankfully familiar motion, and Stiles grins. “Look, you could probably stick a straw in my jugular —Capri Sun style.”

“Stiles, you can trust that my mouth won’t go anywhere near your body in life or death,” Danny drawls. He stays on the second step, looking down at Stiles with a wry expression. 

“Dracula’s got jokes! Can I laugh at that? Since I kinda caused your demise and all,” Stiles asks. They both wince. “At least half my fault.”

“To be fair,” Danny says mildly. “I was dealing molly for vampires.”

“Everyone makes mistakes,” Stiles offers and Danny rewards him with a smile. Two new shiny fangs practically sparkle in his handsome smile. 

Danny’s attention is yanked towards the front of the house then, like an invisible string is attached to his chin. 

“Did Jackson follow you here?” Danny asks, face folding into someone closer to grief. 

“Yes,” Stiles says. He sticks his hands in his pockets. “He’s worried.”

Distantly, softly, “He should worry. I’m dead.” 

“Are you going to tell him?” Stiles asks, shifting uncomfortably. 

“Maybe,” Danny answers. “Aleksy said he could glamour Jackson, like my parents. But not Lydia.”

“Why not Lydia?” Stiles asks, eyebrows raising. 

“She’s something weird too. Aleksy calls her a fairy woman,” Danny says. He shrugs. “She’s, like, a harbinger of death. I don’t know. He’s confusing sometimes. Most times.” 

“How are you...settling in here?” Stiles asks cautiously. 

“It’s ok. Aleksy is really hot. That’s cool,” Danny says. He looks at the front door. “Bonny is sweet. And Aleksy summoned the rest of the family. They should be here in a few weeks.”

“Do you need anything?” 

“No. Not yet. Maybe when I explain to Jackson,” Danny pauses. “If I explain.” 

***

It’s been days since Stiles has been able to be alone with Peter. The introduction of security cameras to his home has made late night rendezvous impossible. His father has hunkered down closer to home as well with the new threat of Gerard and Remy on the horizon. 

So, when Peter sends him a text inviting him over, Stiles goes. Of course he goes. 

The pack bonds spiral across Beacon Hills. Derek is a warm vine, clean and strong. Laura is roots, creeping over the woods and the streets. Cora is a breeze of wind, fluttery but persistent. 

Peter is a wire, razor thin, cutting across the town directly into Stiles’ chest. 

There’s a missing piece in the tapestry of pack bonds. Malia. She had earned her place as surely as any of the rest of them. It’s time. 

Peter’s on him before the door closes all the way, gathering him up against the doorway and cradling him off the ground. Stiles exhales into the embrace, holding just as tightly. He presses his nose into the crown of Peter’s head so he can smell the expensive shampoo in Peter’s hair and —beneath that—the scent of evergreens. 

“Hello, emissary,” Peter purrs against Stiles’ throat. “Where’s your sling?”

“I kept forgetting to not use my arm,” Stiles says. He breathes in the forest one more time and then he wiggles to be put down. “We need to talk—“

“No talking,” Peter murmurs. He hoists Stiles up a little more against the door and nuzzles under his jaw. 

“Yes talking,” Stiles says. He pushes at Peter’s shoulders until Peter meets his eyes. 

Peter looks quietly happy, mouth closed but curved, and eyes bright. He looks content. A warm rush of something blossoms in Stiles’ chest. 

“You should put me down,” Stiles says, softer than he means to. “And maybe sit down yourself.” 

“You’re making me nervous, Stiles,” Peter says, eyes shuttering. He lets Stiles down slowly, eyes searching his carefully. The gentle warmth is gone. “Did you have a vision?”

“Not a vision,” Stiles says. He draws Peter further into the apartment by his hand, maneuvering Peter down onto his sofa. Stiles drops to a knee in front of Peter. “I don’t have visions. But there’s something you need to know. You have a daughter.”

“A daughter?” Peter asks, frowning. “When?”

“Now,” Stiles says, taking Peter’s hand. “You have one now.”

“I think your psychic powers are on the fritz, darling,” Peter says, raising his eyebrow. His thumb rubs over the back of Stiles’ hand. “I don’t have any children.”

“You do. She’s a werecoyote. Her name is Malia,” Stiles continues. “She’s—I think her name is Corrine—the Desert Wolf? That’s Malia’s mom. Malia was born in the nineties.”

“And I’m her father?” Peter asks. He looks concerned and he presses both of his hands around Stiles’. “Darling, that isn’t true. I’ve never been with anyone named Corrine or—or the Desert Wolf. That’s not real.”

“It is, Peter,” Stiles insists. “The memories were taken from you.”

“Taken from—Talia? Are you saying Talia stole memories of a child from me?” Peter asks. The room freezes over. Peter’s face smooths over and he lets go of Stiles’ hands. “My child? My daughter.”

“Yes,” Stiles says. He reaches back for Peter’s hands. Peter jerks away. “Uh. I don’t— I don’t know exactly where she is. But I can get us close enough that you can track her.”

“When did you see her?” Peter asks. His eyes dart up to Stiles’. “When did you know I had a child?”

“Peter,” Stiles starts, not knowing what to say. It’s not enough. It’s too much. Peter stands brusquely, moving away from Stiles in the blink of an eye. Stiles climbs to his feet. “I told you as soon as I thought you wouldn’t—“

“Wouldn’t what?” Peter asks darkly. His voice is like silk over broken glass. “Wouldn’t hurt her? Kill her?”

“You were going to kill Laura—“

“A  _ year  _ ago,” Peter snaps. “Longer even. I was mad from years in a torture prison of my own skin. You knew that long ago?”

“Peter, please,” Stiles says. “You weren’t ready.”

“You had no right,” Peter says. His hands shake at his sides. “Absolutely none.”

There’s a jolt of movement, of muscles spasm of, and then the mantle above the fireplace is swept clean. Picture frames and vases crash to the ground. 

“My daughter, Stiles? My flesh? How could you even begin to think you had a right to keep that from me?” Peter asks, barefoot in the chaos. His voice is rough when he says, “Get out.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, stepping closer. Peter turns from him. “It was to keep her safe.”

“Please leave,” Peter says. Like so many months ago, Stiles watched his shoulder hunch like a glacier. Peter looms away from Stiles, still and cold. “Please.”

“Peter, I—,” Stiles says. His tongue curls around a word.  _ Love _ . It doesn’t leave his lips. 

He goes. 

***

Scott’s bike is outside Stiles’ home when he pulls into the driveway. 

Scott, with his umber curls and his crooked smile. Scott, his oldest friend in this world and in any. Scotty.

Stiles feels his face crumple against his will. He exhales his breath in one long and shuddering blow and lets his forehead press to his steering wheel. He feels lost. Guilty. He wants to smash something. 

He’s not sure how long he sits there crying against his steering wheel but he’s interrupted by a knock on his window. He lifts his head and there’s his Scotty. 

Scott circles around the Jeep and climbs into the passenger seat. Stiles uses his t-shirt to smear the snot and tears off his face. Once he’s done, Scott meets his eyes. 

“What’s going on, dude?” Scott asks softly. 

“I messed up,” Stiles says, being honest. “I kept something from someone that I shouldn’t have. I’m not sure how to fix it.”

“How can I help?” Scott asks. It’s so perfectly him that Stiles’ eyes water again. “What’s our game plan?”

“I love you,” Stiles says, honest again. 

Scott smiles, lowers his chin. 

“I love you too, dude,” he says. “Is it about Danny? Jackson’s been a major pain in the ass about all of that.”

“Nah,” Stiles says, smiling for the first time since he left Peter’s house. “Danny’s fine. It’s the Hales.”

“Oh,” Scott says. He hums quietly. “Whatever happened—no matter what—it’ll be okay. The Hales basically adopted you, dude. It’ll be okay.”

“Thanks, Bugs,” Stiles says. He rubs his sleeve over his eyes and then leans his head back against the headrest. He looks over at Scott. “What brings you to Casa de Stilinski?”

“Well, I wanted to invite you to a lake day,” Scott says. “We were gonna go after next practice. You can invite the Hales if you want?”

“That sounds awesome,” Stiles says. “I will be there. And I’ll ask Derek and Cora if they want to come.” 

“Awesome,” Scott says, grinning. “It’ll be good to get some sun.” 

***

Laura opens the door as Stiles is making his way up the steps. The hem of her sweater is twisted in her hands and she shifts restlessly as Stiles moves across the porch. 

“Did Peter call?” Stiles asks.

“Peter? No. But I feel how— _ upset  _ he is. What happened?” Laura asks. 

“I kept something big from him. There isn’t a good enough explanation for why I kept it but I need to make it right. He has a daughter. She’s trapped in full shift. You need to help her break out. I can take you close to where she is and you can track her,” Stikes says in a rush. “Peter should be there when we find her. You have to call him there. ”

“A daughter?” Laura asks. “What the hell?”

“She’s in the woods right now,” Stiles says. He lingers on the doorstep. How many times will he hurt his pack by playing God?

“Let me get the kids,” Laura says. She hurries back into the house, leaving the front door open. At the base of the steps she turns back towards Stiles. She meets his eyes steadily. “ _ You  _ call Peter. Your mess. You fix it.”

Stiles doesn’t argue. 

The phone rings twice before Peter answers. 

“Stiles,” he says, polite and crisp. “What could you possibly need from me?”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, voice coarse over the grain of guilt in his throat. “You have to know that.”

“I don’t think I know anything about you,” Peter says. The pack bond sings between them like a knife drawn over a piano wire. 

“I’ll send you a pin for her coordinates,” Stiles says. “The pack will meet you there. I can—I’ll stay behind.”

“Don’t do anything on my account,” Peter snarks. It’s jarring in that it makes Stiles realize how much he’s been spared from Peter’s flip attitude. “She’ll be more comfortable with a human present. Send the GPS pin. I’ll meet you.”

Then, Peter hangs up. 

When Stiles drags his eyes off his own shoes, the rest of the Hales have assembled in the foyer. Stiles meets Derek’s eyes last. The understanding Stiles can see in them rests too heavy. 

***

Peter is already parked alongside the stretch of wood that holds Malia. He’s pacing beside his car. 

“Uncle,” Laura says in greeting. “Have you caught a scent?”

“I haven’t tried,” Peter says. “I wasn’t sure I could stop tracking if I started.” 

“Let’s do this,” Derek says, sliding his arm along Stiles’ as he moves past him. 

The car is in the same place and the dented, dusty babydoll looks especially pitiful as Peter carefully draws it from the wreckage. For a brief, taut moment Peter presses the doll to his chest and bows his head. When he looks up again, his eyes burn blue. 

“I have her scent,” Peter says, voice thick with teeth. “South.”

“Let’s go,” Laura says. “Cora. Stay on Stiles.”

Cora nods brusquely and slips into place beside Stiles. They follow the others through the woods at a distance until a long, lonely coyote call spirals through the trees. Then he and Cora are scrabbling over hills and scrub. Cora is careless with her strength as she pulls him over logs and yanks him in new directions as they tail the pack. 

Stiles twists his ankle at some point but Cora just urges him onwards until eventually they circle back to the car just in time to see Laura take a flying leap from the rise above the car and land with a spray of dirt. 

She’s already roaring and the power emanating from her forces Malia to her belly. In the blink of an eye, she sheds her coyote pelt and sprawls, nude, on the forest floor. 

Peter is already pulling his coat over her shoulders by the time Cora yanks Stiles closer to the pack. Cora deposits Stiles near Derek and creeps up beside Laura to sniff cautiously at Malia and Peter.

Malia’s sable hair twists around her pale face, framing wide and terrified eyes. She searches them all, her gaze dragging and jolting between them. Her nose is wrinkled as she takes deep, stuttering breaths. Peter’s coat slips down her shoulder to reveal a thin, malnourished shoulder. 

“Malia,” Laura says in her deep, rumbling Alpha tone. Malia’s head snaps towards her. “You’re safe. You’re with family.” 

“F-family?” Malia croaks through an used voice. Her first word spoken in a decade. She stands on unsteady legs and slips her arms into Peter’s coat. It hits high enough up her legs to show how thin they are. 

“We have much to discuss,” Laura continues, moving closer. “But first, understand that you are of my blood. 

“You aren’t old enough to be my mother.”

“She’s your Alpha,” Peter says. He swallows just once and Stiles notes the nervous line of his shoulders like it’s a neon sign. Peter continues, “Your cousin.”

“Who are you?” Malia asks, turning her nose into the collar of his coat. “You smell—“

It would be inaccurate to describe Peter as vulnerable. Even in his thin undershirt. Even with his hair wrecked from sprinting through a dense wood. Even with the symbol of his Alpha and sister’s betrayal standing before him. Even with the subtle press of claw into his thigh to ground himself. 

He’s never vulnerable. But Stiles can see the purposeful flaying of Peter’s own iron shield. He cracks himself like an oyster for Malia, revealing his soft pink innards. 

“Your father,” Peter says. The babydoll hangs in his hands. 

“My father,” Malia echoes, voice and eyes hazing over. Her nose is still pressed into the collar of Peter’s coat. “What—why—what’s happening?”

“You were trapped in your coyote self,” Laura says. “Something happened to you that was bad enough that you felt safer in your pelt.”

“I don’t remember,” Malia says. Her eyes never leave Peter’s face. “I can’t remember.”

Laura looks at Stiles then, questioning. Stiles knows he will keep this indignity for Malia. 

“I don’t understand how it happened,” Stiles lies carefully. Malia meets his eyes. “I don’t know much. I know a woman was involved. Another werecoyote.” 

“Surely we can debate this indoors,” Peter interjects. He hesitates for a single inhale and then he speaks again, as soft and sweet as he does when he’s alone with Stiles. “Will you come home with us?”

Malia drags her eyes away from Stiles’ to look at Peter. She scents the air slowly, eyes less wild now. 

She nods. 

Peter escorts her up the slope and out of view. Laura and Cora are close on their heels and that leaves Stiles hobbling up the slope on his hurt ankle. 

“Let me,” Derek says suddenly, voice close and quiet. He collects Stiles on his back with a small heft, eyes stalwart ahead. 

Stiles loops arms around his neck and tries really hard to suppress the bone-deep comfort he still feels at smelling Derek’s shampoo. It’s the same in every universe, he supposes. The smell signifies safety, whether he likes it or not. 

“You’re being really quiet,” Derek says, barely audible. His sternum rumbles under Stiles’ hands. “Are you sick?”

“Not sick, just a dick head,” Stiles says. He lets himself inhale Derek’s smell one more time. “The famous Stilinski control issues strike again.”

“Whatever reason made you keep Malia a secret?

I know that it was a good one,” Derek says. They crest the slope and Stiles looks for Peter. He’s in the driver's seat beside Malia. 

He looks at Stiles once, eyes unfamiliar and distant. Then, he drives away.

“Stiles,” Laura says, drawing his attention. “Peter is taking her to Deaton. For a medical check over.” 

“That’s probably smart,” Stiles says. He pats Derek in the chest and slides to the ground. “I need to go see a wisp about my ankle.”

“Take me to Deaton’s first,” Laura says. Her face is serious and firm. 

“I’ll drive you,” Derek says. “It’s more on the way to the House.” 

“No,” Laura says. “Stiles will take me.”

She’s barely 5’5” standing there on the side of the road with a loose, flowy sundress on and little sparkly sandals but the iron in her blood is undeniable. 

“I guess I will,” Stiles says. 

***

Laura ends up driving. She holds Stiles’ ankle in her lap with one hand when she’s not changing gears and alleviates the pain he’s feeling from the strain. Stiles can tell she’s gathering her thoughts and he mindlessly follows the ribbons of black that slither up her arm from the pain she’s taking while he waits. 

Finally, “I know you keep things from me.”

“W—,” Stiles starts and she keeps speaking. 

“I know. And I accept it. Because I trust that you know what you’re doing. But I don’t know if I can trust that anymore, Stiles,” she says. “You kept my cousin from me.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says. His throat burns.

“Just—just tell me there’s a reason. Tell me why,” Laura says. “From the outside perspective? You kept pack from me for no reason.”

“I was worried,” Stiles says. “About—“

“Were you worried I wasn’t a capable Alpha?” She asks, gaze firmly ahead. 

“No. Well, not that you weren’t capable. But it wasn’t as simple. I needed to untangle it all,” Stiles says. The half-truth forms in his mind and he hates every word as it leaves his mouth. “I wasn’t sure about Malia’s father. What—what he was. If he was who I thought he was. As soon as I was sure, I told Peter.” 

“What this whole thing tells me? You know a lot more than I thought you did. You kept an entire  _ person _ from me. From us. What other secrets do you know?” Laura parks the Jeep in Deaton’s parking lot beside Peter’s car. “What else is hiding out there?”

“A banshee. An assassin. A darach, asleep inside the Nemeton,” Stiles says. He pulls his foot back and leans his head on the window, closes his eyes. “Laura, there’s a hundred possible dangers. But they don’t all have to happen. They can’t all happen. I could give you a laundry list but the bottom line is that it won’t all happen.”

“I need a promise from you. An oath,” Laura says. 

Stiles meets her eyes. 

“If it’s family? If it’s blood or pack? You tell me. I get to know about that,” she says. 

“You have my word,” Stiles says. “I swear it.”

“I love you. More importantly, I  _ do  _ trust you. You’ve always done right by our pack. But we have to be on the same page. Especially now. You’re my emissary. You’re my tether to the world.”

“I understand,” Stiles says. He does. 

“Alright,” Laura says, nodding. “Are you okay to drive?”

“I can get home.”

Laura slides out of the drivers’ seat and Stiles scoots into it. Laura climbs up on the foot railing and leans in through the drivers’ window to press a careful kiss to Stiles’ forehead. 

“Be safe. Tomorrow, Cora is going with you to join your lacrosse team. Are you wearing the pendant?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, hand flying up to take hold of it. It’s cool beneath his fingers. It’s heavy around his neck. “Will you call me when you know how Malia is?”

“I will.” 

“I’m sorry, Laura. I am.”

“I know, pup,” Laura says. She rubs her knuckles over Stiles’ pulse point with a gentle smile. “Head home.” 

***

Derek and Scott are on the porch. 

They’re standing apart, both looking incredibly awkward and uncomfortable. It’s a hilarious mirror of Stiles’ other timeline. Stiles hops out of the Jeep carefully and hobbles towards them. 

“Hey, guys,” Stiles says around a laugh. “What brings you to my front step?”

“I’m here to play video games and I’m not taking no for an answer,” Scott says, strangely firm. He falters and squints at Derek from the corner of his eye. “Unless you had plans with Derek.”

“No plans,” Stiles says. He kneels to flick a break in the mountain ash and then unlocks his front door. Derek surges ahead of him, sniffing surreptitiously. Stiles gestures for Scott to enter. “I’m down for some video games.”

“Cool,” Scott says, brightening. “My mom gave me a coupon for pizza. Derek probably has to buy his own though.”

“Derek can buy all of our pizza,” Stiles calls into the house. Scott helps Stiles kick off his sneakers and then into the living room. 

“What kind of pizza?” Derek asks, lurking in the doorway like a serial killer. 

“Meat lover’s,” Scott and Stiles answer in unison. 

“Growing boys need protein, Der,” Stiles adds. 

“Let me wrap your ankle first,” Derek says. “Can I use your computer to look up how to?”

“I know how,” Scott offers over his shoulder. He’s fiddling with the XBox controllers. 

“Scott’s mom is a nurse.”

“...Fine.”

Derek leaves for the kitchen and Scott collects the first aid kit from the bathroom. He prods the bruise forming on the side of Stiles’ foot and makes him wiggle his toes before he begins wrapping it. 

“I feel like you’re getting busted up all the time now,” Scott says, eyes trained on his hands. “You’re always, like, a klutz. But you don’t usually get hurt so bad.”

“I’m okay, Scotty.”

“I don’t know, man. I think—,” Scott cuts himself off, finishing the wrap. “I think maybe something is happening that you aren’t telling me. And I think it has to do with the Hales. And maybe Danny? And you don’t have to tell me anything but—“

He drops off again. Then, he meets Stiles’ eyes. 

“I’m here. I’m with you. You and me? We are endgame. We’re gonna be eighty and trying to play lacrosse at our retirement home. If you need me, I’m here,” Scott says and the surety in his voice is a salve that Stiles didn’t know he needed. 

“I know,” Stiles says. Stiles also knows that—unless he has to? He won’t bring Scott into this shadow of the world. He won’t burden him.

Scott gives his ankle a final pat and then he tosses a controller into Stiles’ lap. 

Derek rejoins them and they spend the rest of the afternoon making their way through three pizzas and dozens of rounds of the game. 

***

Cora greets Stiles from the bottom of his driveway with a cool nod. She’s driving the Hale’s work truck, a massive black thing that she needs to spring into like a cat pouncing. 

When Stiles finally manages to clamber into the beast with his practice bag, he takes in Cora’s clothing. She’s wearing the informal practice uniform right down to the Cyclone’s jersey. Her hair is tightly plaited in a severe line down the back of her head and she’s got a pile of lacrosse gear in the backseat. 

“You’re more prepared than I am,” Stiles laughs. “You’re going to get first string as soon as Coach sees you and I’m going to have to hear about it from Isaac and Scott for the next ten years.”

“Not my fault you guys have shitty human bodies,” Cora says, cranking the column shift into motion. The truck rumbles down the suburban street and she flits a quick look at him. “Sorry about your ankle. I forgot how weak you are.” 

“Wow. Thanks,” Stiles says, smiling. “That’s so sweet. Are you secretly a total softie? This  _ highly  _ emotional speech is admittedly a little jarring. Are you feeling okay?”

Cora ignores him steadily, cranking the radio up louder. It’s some grit-rock noise that easily envelopes the duo as they make their way to the lacrosse field 

At practice, Cora simply falls in line with the rest of the team for warmups. She gets a few looks, but most people are harried into motion by Coach’s bleating whistle. After warmups, Scott and Stiles take their places on the bench and watch the different drills take form. 

“I haven’t met a single Hale that isn’t scary,” Scott complains, watching Cora heave Jackson onto the ground.

“They must be raised on a diet of protein powder and fear,” Isaac comments, wincing when Cora uses Jackson’s fallen form as a springboard. 

“Just wait until you meet Laura,” Stiles offers. He’s relacing Isaac’s lacrosse stick. “She’s like hot chocolate on a winter day. She’s a dream.” 

“Is she a dream like Erica is a badass hottie according to you? Or is she actually?” Isaac scoffs, collapsing at their feet with a huff. 

“Erica is a badass hottie,” Stiles rolls his eyes and prods Isaac with his stick. “You’re just a dumb teenager.”

“So are you,” Isaac hisses, pushing the stick away. He places a ginger hand over the spot Stiles pressed. Over his ribs. 

The mood sobers considerably. 

Scott doesn’t know what’s happening to Isaac. But he knows enough to sense the shift in energy. He drags his attention away from Cora and glances between them. 

“Did Stiles get you too hard?” Scott asks, leaning forward a little. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just—growing pains. You know,” Isaac says. 

Isaac sits up, curling his arms around his knees. Stiles knocks his knee against Isaac’s shoulder gently and they melt into a gentle quiet. It stays quiet—Isaac broods between them and Scott is unusually invested in the practice drills—until Allison and Lydia stroll up to them. 

“Hey,” Allison chirps into Scott’s hair. She hugs him from behind for a moment before squishing onto the bench beside him. 

Stiles raises an eyebrow at Lydia and she scowls at him. But then, she inclines her head in a gesture for him to follow her. Stiles inhales quietly and pats Isaac on the crown of his pretty curls before following her up onto the bleachers. She makes her way all the way up to the top row, far from listening ears, and waits for him to join her. The sun seems warmer up here and the blue sky stretches out behind Lydia to meet the dark forest.

“Danny is coming to the river party tomorrow,” Lydia says first. “He won’t say what’s going on. But he explained that it’s extremely private. So I can’t be mad at you for keeping that secret. But—“

“He’s okay,” Stiles interrupts. Lydia clamps her lips together and meets his eyes. “He is. Stuff is...changing. But Danny is okay.”

She watches him for a long moment. The breeze ruffles her curls and he thinks of a time when he loved her more than anything in the world. She’s a child now, so far from him it’s laughable. The sharpness is undeniable, her intelligence and poise are expertly polished even now. But she’s a kid. 

She nods. 

“I believe you. You’re changed too,” she says. “You aren’t anything like you were when we started sophomore year.”

“Well, you got me there,” Stiles laughs. He rubs a hand over his face. “I’ll tell you but you won’t believe me.”

“I’m willing to wager that I would,” Lydia answers. She wraps her arms around herself. “I don’t think you could shock me, Stiles.”

“Not shock, sure. But you wouldn’t believe me,” Stiles says. “Not yet.”

“When would I?” She asks. She always asks the right question. 

“Hopefully?” Stiles asks. He thinks of her screams. Her anguish. The terrible knowledge her heritage grants her. “Hopefully, never.”

As they make their way back down the bleachers, Allison’s voice floats up to meet them.

“—came to visit my grandpa. To help look for Aunt Kate,” she says, fingers laced with Scott’s. “He’s kind of weird but I guess he can find anyone. He’s like made a career of it.”

“That’s good,” Scott says. 

“Yeah. He has like a whole team. They’re all from Lithuania. The leader—or whatever—his name is Remy,” she continues. 

All the air exits Stiles’ lungs in a smooth press. His lungs begin their first hiccuping jolt into a panic attack when something whacks into his cheek hard enough to knock him on to his ass on the bleacher steps. His vision swims, spiraling inwards as Cora’s face trickles into view. 

“Inhale, stupid,” she snaps.

Stiles does. 

_ “Why _ did you do that?” Lydia hisses, pulling Stiles up by his arm. He clings to her more firmly than he means to. The world swings around them. “That was on purpose.”

“He was having a panic attack,” Cora answers, slinging her lacrosse stick behind her neck. “He’ll be less of a problem if he just has a bruise on his cheek.”

“And how did you know he was having a panic attack from across the field?” Lydia sneers. “Who even are you?”

“Cora Hale. Nice to meet you, princess,” Cora says, smiling coldly. “You can leave now.”

“Jesus,” Stiles swears, finally catching up to their snark. “Cora, we literally just talked about this. You can’t just—I am a very fragile human! I am extremely breakable.”

“I pulled my throw,” Cora sighs. She reaches out and pulls Stiles towards her by the shirtfront and then presses her hand over the welt forming on his cheek. Her fingerless gloves and thermal hide the curling black pain she’s drawing from his face. “I am sorry.”

“You’re psycho,” Lydia snaps. “You can’t just pelt people in the face with lacrosse balls.”

“Lydia, it’s fine,” Stiles sighs. “She was right.”

“What could have possibly given you a panic—,” she cuts herself off, eyes narrowing in Allison’s direction. “Hmm.” 

“No. Nope. Lydia, next year is junior year. Surely the PSATs take precedence over local Beacon Hill drama?”

“Fine. I’ll drop this. I’ll drop the missing Argent and the bruises on your back that Jackson told me about. I’ll drop the Hale clan suddenly sprouting from the woodwork. I’ll drop the murders at  _ The Jungle.  _ I’ll drop Danny going missing and suddenly reappearing after being with you at  _ The Jungle _ . Is there anything else I need to drop?”

“Lydia,” Stiles starts but he falters into silence. What can he say?

She leaves them to hover behind Allison’s shoulder with her arms crossed. Stiles sits on the bleacher nearest him. 

“Well. Some good news. The Coach told me I was the best lacrosse player he’s drafted since 1983. So I think that particular plan is going well,” Cora says. 

Stiles laughs helplessly. He keeps laughing. 

He laughs long enough that Cora wrinkles her nose at him and jogs back on to the field. He’s still letting out helpless little chuckles as he catalogs the week’s events. 

Lydia is close to the truth. He’s hurt Peter with his playing God. Cora has successfully infiltrated his human life. Gerard and Remy are joining forces. Isaac is being tortured at home. Danny is a vampire. 

He remembers this feeling from his last timeline. The second hand is counting down. The plot lines are all twisting together and it’s just a matter of time before shit hits the fan. 

It’s time to stop playing defense. It’s time to bring in the offense.

***

Stiles wakes with a start, reaching for the knife he keeps under his pillow in the same breath. He’s not sure why he woke up until his eyes adjust to the dark. 

Peterwolf is outside his window, huffing against the glass pane. 

“How often does he do this?” 

Derek’s voice spikes from the dark and Stiles barely stops himself from letting the blade loose in his direction. Derek’s in the chair in the corner, sans jacket. 

He’d started the nightly Hale vigil on the couch downstairs and must have moved up here at some point after Stiles fell asleep. He’s watching his uncle with a strangely blank expression. 

“Not often usually,” Stiles says. He sits up, returning the knife to its hiding place. “When we fight though, he’s here every night.” 

“His wolf is…”

“Fucked up,” Stiles finishes. “It’s better now. You missed when it was really bad.” 

“The shape you take reflects the person you are.”

“He’s better now.”

Derek stands and opens the window. Peter Wolf scents the air, runs his furred chin across the invisible mountain ash barrier. Stiles views the monstrous shift through Derek’s eyes. The strips of bald skin, once shiny pink from burns, now short and sparsely furred like they’ve been shorn. The milky corneas misting over violent blue eyes. The wicked claws, predatory versus the previous skeletal. 

“He’s better?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. He crosses his arms on his knees and lays his head on his forearms. He’s tired. 

“Are you going to let him in?” Derek asks. He’s still watching Peter Wolf. 

“I usually do,” Stiles shrugs. “He leaves before I wake up if he’s still pissed. But the cameras. You know.”

“I’m surprised he isn’t with Malia.”

“Me too, actually,” Stiles says, brows furrowed. He climbs out of bed and sticks his head out the window. He’s rewarded with hot breath and sharp teeth gnashing cheerfully. “Where’s your puppy?”

_ “Safe. Pack,”  _ Peter Wolf grunts. He cocks his head to peer at Derek.  _ “Nephew Boy. Sad.” _

“Hello, Uncle,” Derek says, leaning out the window beside Stiles. “I’ll stay here. With Stiles. He’s safe.”

Peter Wolf seems to accept this at face value and he drops off the roof with whisper. Stiles and Derek watch Peter lope off into the dark in silence. 

“I’m going to do a spell. I need something from you,” Stiles says into the quiet. “I need hair. Or blood.”

“For what?”

“I need to summon another wolf. Or at least get his attention. You have a connection to him. Through Talia,” Stiles says. 

“Who is it?” 

“His name is Deucalion,” Stiles says grimly. “And we need his help.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, thank you for your patience. 
> 
> Enjoy a river day with the Beacon Hillians in our next chapter. Secrets are revealed and several alliances are made.


End file.
